UC-NRLF 


SO?4S3  OF  SENTIMENT. 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT  OF" 
THE    FAMILY   OF   REV.   DR.   GEORGE    MOOAR 


Class 


~ 


SONGS   OF  SENTIMENT. 


BY  JOHN  B.  KETCHUM. 


Trifles,  light  as  air." 

—  Shakespeare. 


AMERICAN   LITERARY   AGENCY. 
1884. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1883,  by 

JOHN  B.  KETCHUM, 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PRESS  OF  LKHMAIER  &  BRO. 
95,  97,  FULTON  ST.,  N.  Y. 


r 


' 


APOLOGY. 


It  may  be  glorious  to  write 
Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls,  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 
Once  in  a  century. 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak, 
One  simple  word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 
And  friendless  sons  of  men. 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art, 
Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood  shine 
In  the  untutored  heart. 

He  that  doth  this,  in  verse  or  prose, 
May  be  forgotten  in  his  day, 
But  surely  shall  be  crowned  at  last  with  those 
Who  live  and  speak  for  aye. 


1 23120 


I    FONDLY    DEDICATE   THIS   VOLUME,  THE    FRAIL 
FRUIT   OF   YOUTHFUL   FANCY   AND    MANHOOD'S    FUGITIVE    HOURS, 

TO  MY  WIFE, 

THE   CONSTANT   PARTNER    OF   MY  JOYS   AND   SORROWS,   HOPES   AND 
ASPIRATIONS,    FOR   THE   QUARTER-CENTURY    LAST    PAST. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 


LIFE'S  DREAM,       - 9 

WHERE?  — IMPROMPTU,     ....  „ 

THE  RECALL,          ------  I3 

THE  WATCHER,            -  I4 

THE  STORM-KING,  X5 

BELLS  OF  THE  VALLEY,     -  I7 

WANDERING  WINDS,  I9 

A  LAMENT  FOR  SUMMER,  2I 

WE  MEET  NO  MORE  — A  SONG,                              .  23 

THE  GIRLS  WE  LEFT  BEHIND,                -           -  25 

LOVE'S  AVOWAL, 2? 

THERE  IS  A  LAND -HYMN,         -           -          -  29 

THE  PRISONER'S  LAMENT,                                         -  3I 

AUTUMN'S  FALLING  LEAVES,  33 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PACK. 

UNDER  THE  APPLE  TREES,  -        35 

SYMPATHY,         -           -  37 

EVENING  SHADOWS,       -  -        39 

RACHELLE,  -        41 

WHO  IS  HAPPY?           -  43 

THE  CHRISTIAN  MISSIONARY,  -                      -       45 

REALF,        -  47 

THE  FAREWELL,  -           -        49 

ALLETTA,  51 

JENNY  IN  THE  LANE— A  SONG,  -                       -        54 

LATE  MAY,  56 

MY  ROCKLAND  HOME,  -        58 

TREAD  SOFTLY,  59 
BEFORE  PORT  HUDSON,           ....        60 

SLEEP,  LADY,  SLEEP  -  A  SERENADE,  -             62 

SENTRY'S  EVENING  HYMN,  -           -           -       $j 

LIFE'S  GUIDING  STAR,         -           -  -             65 

FRIENDS  OF  OUR  BOYHOOD,  -    .       -          -       67 

COME  NOT  TO  THE  BOWER,  6g 


CONTENTS.  vii 


PAGE. 

THE  EXILE,                           .....  7I 

THE  SPELL  OF  SONG,           ....  73 
RACH.,             ----...75 

I  WAITED  BY  THE  OLD  OAK  TREE,  77 

JUNE  IN  THE  COUNTRY,  70 

JEANNETTE,      -           ....           .           -  81 

BOYISH  MEMORIES,                                             -           -  83 

THE  OFFICER'S  FUNERAL,  86 

GENTLE  WORDS,               -           -           -           -  88 

LIFE'S  STRUGGLE,       -           ...-_.           .  89 

THE  LAST  GUEST, 9i 

THE  WINTRY  FOREST,        -  93 

RACHELLE  ANN,                .....  Q5 

MY  BOYHOOD'S  HOME,        ....  97 

THE  LAST  OF  EARTH,                                                   .  99 

TO  JEANNETTE,    ......  IOI 

STILL  THE  ANGEL  STARS  ARE  SHINING,     -  103 

THE  GRAVE -IMPROMPTU,  -           .           .           -  105 

I  CANNOT  SPEAK  HER  NAME  — A  SONG,  107 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

THE  BETRAYED, 109 

OH,  SING  THAT  SONG  AGAIN,  m 

THE  LAST  RECOGNITION,       -           -  -          -      113 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  BRAVE,  ns 

THE  MIDNIGHT  BELL,               -           -  -           -      117 

TO  A  LADY  OPPOSITE,  u9 

THE  VOLUNTEER'S  DEPARTURE,  1861,  -           -      121 

FLEETING  TIME,  123 

BATTLE-PRAYER,  1861,                -           -  -           -      125 

ORANGEBURGH  STATION,  126 

TO  THE  RAMAPO  MOUNTAINS,       -  -           -      129 

FOREVER  THINE, 132 

WINGED  HOURS,               -           -           -  -           -      133 

THE  BROOK  IN  THE  WOODLAND,        -  -           135 

THE  SOLDIER'S  REVERIE,       -           -  -           -      137 

SUNSET, i39 

OH,  TAKE  THE  LUTE!   -           -           -'  -           -      141 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES,     -  -142 


POEMS,   MELODIES,   ETC. 


LIFE'S  DREAM. 


The  winds  of  evening  breathed  in  chorus  sweet, 

The  azure  sky  had  lost  itself  in  gold  ; 
The  blue-tinged  clouds,  with  gently  swaying  feet 

Round  thedim  mountains  hung  their  gorgeous  fold. 
The  parting  sunbeams  smiled  upon  the  trees, 

And  rosy  shadows  played  along  the  vale, 
The  robins  chanted  'mid  the  curling  leaves, 

And  drooped  the  lily  in  its  beauty  pale. 

The  faint  white  moon  was  midway  in  the  sky  — 

A  silver  shield  she  seemed  —  a  shield  of  love, 
Pure  in  her  whiteness  'mid  the  crimson  dye, 

Slowly  she  wandered  o'er  the  dome  above. 
By  the  oped  lattice  of  a  cottage  low, 

A  fair  young  girl  lay  on  her  pillows  white, 
Her  pale  cheeks  roseate  in  the  sunset  glow, 

Her  blue  eyes  beaming  strangely  clear  and  bright. 


10  LIFE'S  DREAM. 


Back  from  her  forehead  swept  the  pale  gold  hair, 

Her  waxen  hands  were  folded  on  her  breast ; 
The  soft  wind  left  its  gentle  breathing  there, — 

And  kissed  her,  ere  she  sought  the  promised  rest. 
Close  by  her  side  her  mother  knelt  in  woe, — 

No  tear-drop  dimmed  the  anguish  of  her  eye  : 
To  Heaven  she  looked  for  Hope's  bright  starry  bow, 

And  in  that  presence  hushed  was  every  sigh. 

"Mother,"  the  pale  lips  said,  "the  day  is  done  ; 

Fading  away  the  roses  from  the  sky  ; 
Thus  does  my  life  in  brightness  slowly  wane, 

In  youth's  young  spring  I've  laid  me  down  to  die  ; 
Yet,  mother,  I  cannot  die  —  the  earth  all  bright, 

The  streamlets  fair  —  the  glorious  flowers  in  bloom; 
I  cannot  pass  through  death's  cold,  gloomy  night, 

Or  change  life's  beauty  for  the  distant  tomb  ! 

"  I  do  not  fear  the  grave  ;  but  oh,  to  leave 

Thee  here,  sweet  mother;  oh!  how  lone  thou'lt  be  ; 
The  morn  no  gladness  —  nor  the  hush  of  eve  — 

Thy  thoughts  will  wander  where  thou'st  buried  me  ; 
All,  all  alone,  and  sad,  and  I  must  sleep, 

Nor  raise  my  hands  to  wipe  away  thy  tears  ; 
Not  to  be  near  thee  when  thy  dim  eyes  weep  — 

Cold  in  the  grave  to  sleep  through  endless  years. 


WHERE?— IMPROMPTU.  11 


"  Mother,  I  feel  that  I  am  dying,  dying  ; 

Mother,  thy  face  is  passing  from  me  now  — 
I  close  my  eyes  —  soon,  in  the  cold  grave  lying, 

The  damp  will  rest  upon  my  chilly  brow  ! 
Heaven's  gate  is  opening  !  the  crystal  light 

Breaks  on  my  sight  !  clear  looms  the  distant  shore ; 
Spirit,  I  come  ;  gone  are  the  shades  of  night  — 

Mother,  farewell  !  "  Life's  Dream  with  her  was  o'er. 


WHERE  ?  —IMP  ROMP  T  U. 


How  have  these  well-known  scenes  renewed 

The  thoughts  and  hopes  of  earlier  hours, 
When  life  —  a  desert  now  —  was  strewed 
With  fairest  flowers  ? 

Then  life  was  young,  and  thou  wert  fair  ; 

Now  flowers  are  faded  —  joys  are  fled  — 
And  youth  and  love  are  with  the  dead  ; 
And  thou  art  —  where? 


THE  RECALL. 


u  Soldier  !  rest —  thy  warfare's  o'er  ; 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking  ! 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger  —  nights  of  waking." 

— Sir  Walter  Scott. 


Hark  !  'tis  the  low,  shrill  trumpet  that  sounds  the 

recall  ; 

And  sweet  its  long  note  is  to  friend  and  to  foe  ; 
The  onsets  of  horses  now  no  longer  appall  ; 

The  last  charging  squadron  has  struck   the  last 
blow. 

Where  now  is  he  who  led  the  charge  foremost  at 
dawn, 

With  bright  corselet,  steel  morion  and  rich  vest  ? 
His  breast-plate  is  dinted,  and  his  helmet  is  gone  : — 

The  crimson  field  mocks  at  the  clouds  in  the  west. 

Far  over  the  torn  heath  lie  the  valiant  and  slain  ; 

Their  places  in  the  solid,  close  ranks  are  filled  : 
Life,  Pride,  Honor  and  Love,  alike  now  are  as  vain, 

And  coldly  passive,  as  the  blood  that  is  spilled. 


THE  RECALL.  13 


Warrior  !  would'st  for  strength  to  strike  at  the  foe 
once  more, 

To  die  with  thy  face  to  the  front  of  thy  foes  ? 
What  need  ?  the  vict'ry  is  thine,  and  the  fight  is  o'er  ; 

Thou  hast  broken  his  ranks,  and  levell'd  long  rows. 

List  !  how  sweetly  sounds  now  thy  Lady's  soft-tun'd 

lute; 
How  fragrant  the  dew-sprinkled  flowers  from  her 

bower  ; 

Press  the  Cross  to  thy  lips,  and  her  Token  salute, 
'Ere  night  comes  and  calls  the  gray-owl  from  yon 
tower. 

Oh !  soldier,  gaze  last  on  the  white  scarf  at  thy  breast ; 

To  thy  Saint  and  to  thy  Lady  commend  thee  ; 
Her  blue  eye  shall  seek  thee,but  shall  find  thee  at  rest; 

When  the  morning  drum-beat  shall  sound  Reveille. 

Farewell  !  the  pale  moon  on  thy  cold  corse  is  falling  ; 

Proud  hearts  long  shall  mourn  thee,  and  bright 

eyes  will  weep  ; 
And  oft  shall  thy  Lady's  sweet  lute  be  heard  calling, 

But  never  again  shalt  thou  wake  from  thy  sleep. 


THE   WATCHER. 

MARCH    I3TH,   1876. 


"GO,    BURY   THY    SORROW." 

Last  words  to  his  Mot  he. 


Pale  moonbeams  through  the  curtains  fall 
In  silent  waves  of  silv'ry  light  ; 

I  sit  beside  my  dead  child's  pall, 
And  wait  the  long,  lone  hours  of  night. 

But  yester-morn  at  dewy  hour, 
No  sweeter  bud  on  life's  fair  tree  ; 

To-day  a  blighted,  wither'd  flow'r, 
Clings  to  the  stem  of  memory. 

The  March  winds  sob  upon  his  grave  ; 

There  willows  weep  and  cypress  sighs : 
No  pray'r  avail'd  his  life  to  save  ;  — 

The  soul  sought  swift  its  native  skies. 


THE  STORM-KING. 


With  wrinkled  brow  and  hoary  head, 

And  breathing  peril  forth, 
Came  down  with  firm  and  stately  tread 

The  Storm-King  from  the  North  ! 
A  solemn  dirge  there  came  of  sighs, 

And  clouds  rode  in  the  gale  ; 
The  sun  withdrew  to  southern  skies 

And  shone  with  lustre  pale. 

O'er  all  the  landscape  far  and  wide, 

White  drapery  he  spread  ; 
'Twas  not  the  vesture  of  the  bride, 

But  that  which  shrouds  the  dead  ; 
His  wand  just  touch'd  the  window-pane 

What  images  appear'd  ! 
And  castles,  such  as  in  the  brain, 

By  Fancy's  hand  are  rear'd. 

Like  adamant  became  the  ground 
Whereon  his  foot  was  set  ; 


THE  STORM  KING. 

In  icy  fetters  firm  he  bound 

Each  pool  and  rivulet  ; 
The  birds  that  filled  the  air  with  song 

Foresaw  his  dismal  reign, 
And  while  autumnal  days  were  long. 

Poured  forth  their  parting  strain. 

The  forest  trees,  shorn  of  their  charms 

And  blast-protecting  screen, 
Spread  to  the  sky  their  naked  arms  — 

All,  save  the  evergreen  : 
As  timid  maidens  stand  o'erawed 

At  sight  of  warlike  bands, 
So  while  the  Storm-King  sways  his  Rod 

All  nature  trembling  stands. 

There  is  a  winter  of  the  heart, 

When  dark  forebodings  sway, 
And  when  serenest  joys  depart 

Like  birds  of  summer's  day  ; 
But  Hope  remains  —  the  Evergreen  — 

Amid  surrounding  gloom, 
To  decorate  each  wint'ry  scene, 

And  smile  above  the  tomb. 


THE  BELLS  OF  THE  VALLEY. 


THE  ARGUMENT.— At  the  evening  hour  we  can  distinct! y  hear, 
from  our  residence  in  the  Ramapo  Valley,  full  three  miles  dis 
tant,  the  ringing  of  the  village  church  bells  at  Monsey  and 
Spring  Valley  (N.  Y.),  inviting  to  the  worship  of  God.  At  first 
we  hear  only  the  measured  chime  of  the  bells  as  the  sounds 
gradually  steal  over  the  distance,  and  as  gradually  recede, 
until  the  faint  toll  is  scarcely  perceptible. 


Oh  !  hark  to  the  call  of  the  sweet  church  bells, 

Whose  tones  break  the  still  Sabbath  air  ; 
Falling,  as  the  chimes  come  over  the  dells, 

On  the  soul  like  the  voice  of  prayer  : 
How  they  plead  and  entreat  to  be  wise  ! 

Begging  heed  to  Mercy's  fond  call  ; 
In  notes  whose  sweetness  allure  to  the  skies  — 

Irr  strains  soft  as  from  Angels  fall 
Over  a  sinner's  return. 

Hark  again  to  the  bells  measur'd  tolling, 
Marking  the  last  moments  of  day  ; 

While  God's  minist'ring  spirits  are  rolling 
Our  burdens  of  guilt  far  away  : 


18  THE  BELLS  OF  THE  VALLEY. 

What  if  no  voice  of  Preacher  can  reach  us  — 
With  our  God  we  here  can  commune  ; 

And  the  pleading  bell-tone  can  still  teach  us, 
And  our  hearts  to  worship  attune 

With  the  Bells  of  the  Valley. 

Oh,  bells,  ring  on  !  for  our  thoughts  are  clinging 

To  the  Sabbaths  of  other  days  ; 
When  we  heard  at  first  the  church  bell  ringing, 

And  the  story  of  Wisdom's  ways  : 
How  our  young  years  pass'd  —  and  the  tuneful  bell 

A  changing  strain  was  pealing  ; 
As  firm  and  true  our  baptismal  vows  fell, 

Vows  the  bell  was  so  fondly  sealing 

When  fairest  the  Autumn  time. 

Sweet  bells!  ye  have  brought  to  our  eyes  some  tears, 

As  we've  thought  on  life's  shifting  scene  ; 
On  the  mocking  picture  of  later  years, 

And  of  all  that  we  might  have  been. 
God  guide  us  through  life,  and  keep  us  in  love. 

And  when  from  earth  we  shall  sever, 
May  the  Angel-songs  that  come  from  above, 

Fall  on  our  spirits  forever 

In  endless  Hallelujahs. 


WANDERING  WINDS. 


Oh  !  wandering  winds  that  press  from  far-off  climes 

and  seas, 

And  on  my  fragile  way  so  rudely,  wildly  blow  ; 
Come  !  and  these   strangely  anxious   thoughts  and 

fears  appease  ; 
While  o'er  my  fruitless  past  let  Lethe's  waters  flow. 

Have  I  not  toil'd  with  eager  hope  to  win  from  Fame 
Some  recognition  I  could  look  upon  with  pride? 

A  few  sweet  buds  to  twine  around  my  humble  name, 
'Ere  all  the  flow'rs  poetic  in  my  soul  had  died  ? 

Me-thought  could  I  but  cull  some  bright  and  fade 
less  flowers,  ^ 
The  stern  and  rugged  paths  of  Genius  hold  and 

yield, 
I  had  not  spent   in    vain    life's    short  and   fleeting 

hours, 

But  gained  a  wreath  of  perfect  beauty  from  the 
field. 


20  WANDERING  WINDS. 


Yet  I  have  wrung  some  slight  applause  from  the 
world's  heart  ! 

But,  oh  !  how  weak  and  valueless  it  now  appears  ; 
Piercing  my  very  soul  with  envious,  cruel  dart, 

As  on  my  wasted  pathway  lie  the  stricken  years. 

What  matters  if  my  way  be   rough   and  chequer'd 

here, 

My  home  far  from  the  stately  City's  moral  strife  ? 
So  that  my  soul  looks  through  high  Heaven's  atmo 
sphere, 

And  bears  the  impress  of  Christ's  great  and  kindly 
life. 

Not  late  I  learn  to  weave  bright  garlands  from   the 

flow'rs  of  Truth  ; 
Leaving    the   world's   high-blooming    regions    of 

romance  : 

And  solace  drawing  from  the  magic  fount  of  Youth, 
Envy  not  wealth's  display  —  nor  pride  and   cir 
cumstance. 

Here  would  I  rest !  nor  longer  feed,  in  mental  pain, 
On  unsubstantial  phantoms  of  the  brain  and  mind  ; 

Nor  fondly  hug  delusions  — imaged,  wild  and  vain, 
Born  of  the  idly  wand'ring  breeze  and  desert  wind. 


A  LAMENT  FOR  SUMMER. 


Drear  Autumn  wind  now  rudely  blows 
Dead  leaves  drop  thick  and  fast  ; 

Chill  gusts  foretell  of  Alpine  snows, 
And  Summer  days  are  past. 

The  flowers  that  to  the  wanton  air 
Their  frail  forms  gently  bow'd  ; 

Stand  pleading  now  in  mute  despair, 
While  Winter  weaves  their  shroud. 

The  merry  birds  have  taken  flight  ; 

And  voiceless,  shrub  and  tree  ; 
Adieu  !  to  song  and  ladies  bright  ;— 

The  Poet's  pen  is  free. 

Farewell  to  Summer  airs  and  skies 

To  joys  so  lately  ours  ! 
What  spirit  will  refuse  its  sighs 

For  Summer's  cloudless  hours. 


A    LAMENT  FOR  SUMMER. 


Light  hearts  that  care  not  to  survive 

The  sunny  days  of  June  ; 
E'en  in  December  shall  revive, 

And  Lyres  anew  attune. 

And  hours  when  Love  alone  conveys 
His  true  Flame  to  the  heart  ; 

Shall  come  again  in  after  days, 
And  bridal  skies  impart. 


SONG.—  WE  MEET  NO  MORE. 


AIR  :     "  Tke  Harp  that  once  thro1  Tarns  Halls." 


We  meet  no  more  —  for  Fate  has  wak  d 

Love's  dearest,  fondest  dream  ; 
It  but  remains  to  say  Farewell, 

Without  from  Hope  a  gleam  : 
How  can  I  cross  Life's  dreary  waste, 

Or  know  the  future's  store  — 
Our  hearts  united  n'er  again, 

And  we  to  meet  no  more  ? 

Yet  sweet  'twill  be  in  future  hours, 

To  think  on  joys  long  past  ; 
And  sad  to  know  of  pleasures  o'er, 

Whose  brightness  could  not  last  : 
Here  in  this  transitory  world, 

This  changing  scene  of  ours, 
The  darkest  shadows  on  the  soul, 

Succeed  the  reign  of  flow'rs. 


WE  MEET  NO  MORE. 


Tis  over  now. —  Forgive,  and  let 

No  thought  of  me  remain  ; 
We  part  !  and  yet  in  after  years, 

May  we  not  meet  again  ? 
Our  sails  are  set  to  woo  the  breeze 

That  parts  us  from  the  shore, 
Our  barks  will  drift  full  wide  apart  — 

And  we  may  meet  not  more. 

Farewell  !  With  brave  heart  in  my  breast, 

I  launch  upon  the  wave  ; — 
May  thy  pathway  be  clear  and  bright, 

And  Heav'n  thy  good  ship  save  : 
No  howling  storms  rage  o'er  thy  way, 

No  touch  of  burning  sand  ; 
But  '  bon  '  the  '  voyage  '  be  to  thee  — 

And  sweet  the  crv  of  'Land /' 


THE  GIRLS   WE  LEFT  BEHIND. 

AN    ARMY   SONG. — 1862. 

Haste,  boys!  the  drum-beat  bids  us  come, 

Though  fast  the  girls  enchain  ; 
A  soldier's  lot  it  is  to  roam, 

While  cowards  home  remain  : 
So  good-bye,  girls  !  when  we  are  far, 

Each  soldier  true  you'll  find  ; 
And  you  shall  know  how  dear  you  are  — 

You  girls  we  leave  behind  ! 

The  eyes  I  love  are  deepest  jet  — 

Some  love  the  blue  and  gray  — 
And  long  'twill  be  'ere  we  forget 

How  bright  they  beam  to-day  ! 
Ah,  girls  !  turn  not  away  those  eyes, 

Nor  deem  us  still  unkind  ; 
Now  doubly  dear  are  all  your  sighs  — 

You  girls  we  leave  behind. 


THE  GIRLS  WE  LEFT  BEHIND. 

Adieu,  dear  girls  !  our  duty  calls  — 

The  bugle  sounds  away  ! 
Its  music  on  the  soldier  falls, 

The  morrow  brings  the  fray : 
But  in  your  hearts  —  oh,  have  no  fear 

That  to  the  rear  you'll  find 
The  gallant  boys,  still  fondly  dear, 

To  girls  they  leave  behind  ! 


SONG.— LOVE'S  AVOWAL. 

TO    L.  M.  C. 

A  URORA-ON-CAVUGA-LAKE.— AUGUST,  1857. 

The  night-breeze  steals  across  the  lake  ; 

And  falls  on  floral  bow'rs 
As  soft  as  if  it  feared  to  break 

The  slumbers  of  the  liow'rs  ; — 
So,  Lady,  may  my  gentle  song 

Come  to  thee  in  repose  ; 
And  whisper,  as  it  steals  along, 

A  tale  thy  heart  well  knows. 

Tis  of  that  fairest  Autumn  night, 

When  stars  so  brightly  shone  : 
We  met  there  in  its  witching  light, 

And  thou  wert  all  my  own  : — 
Thou  gav'st  me  then  thy  soft,  white  hand 

Thy  bosom  rose  and  heav'd  — 
While  love,  with  more  than  fairy's  wand, 

A  subtle  net  had  weav'd. 


LOVE'S  AVOWAL. 


The  moments  glided  all  too  soon  — 

Soft  fell  the  pale  moonlight  ; 
Thv  vow  was  by  the  chaste,  full  moon, 

Which  witnessed  then  our  '  plight  :' 
O,  swear  again,  that  thou'lt  be  mine, 

And  keep  thy  '  troth  '  to  me  !  — 
As  I  am  evermore  but  thine, 

Though  'tween  us  roll  a  sea. 

Sweet  Lady,  in  thy  blushing  look 

I  read  thy  answer  plain  ; 
Let  angels,  in  their  record-book, 

Write  it  all  o'er  again  : 
And  let  them  seal  the  vow  of  love 

That  binds  thee  to  be  mine  — 
And  stars  be  witness,  high  above, 

While  Heav'n  proclaims  me  thine. 


HYMN— THERE  IS  A  LAND. 


"  There  remaineth  therefore  a  rest.1'1 

HEB.  4,  9. 

There  is  a  land,  I  know  not  where  ; 

A  country  far  away  ; 
Upon  whose  shores  no  gloomy  night 

Breaks  on  the  joys  of  Day  : 
A  land  Earth's  weari'd  ones  may  find 

When  darkness  comes  apace  ; 
And  fast  the  shades  of  Death  advance, 

And  well  is  won  the  race. 

Here  every  dream  of  rest  deceives 

The  fainting  storm-toss'd  soul  ; 
And  o'er  the  heart  great  bitter  floods 

Of  Marah's  waters  roll  : 
There  we  shall  bask  in  Seraph's  light 

While  God,  the  Father,  lives  ; 
And  eat  the  fruits  from  Life's  fair  Tree, 

WThich  Christ  so  freely  gives. 


THERE  IS  A  LAND. 

Thither  my  Saviour  and  my  God, 

My  zealous  steps  direct  ; 
And  grant  that  I  may  be  of  those 

Thou'lt  claim  as  Thine  elect : — 
Be  Thou  through  life  my  constant  Guide  ; 

And  when  the  Crowns  are  given, 
Grant  me  Eternal-life  above, 

And  perfect  rest  in  Heaven. 


THE  PRISONER'S  LAMENT. 

RESPECTFULLY    INSCRIBED    TO    MISS    LINDA    GILBBRT. 

There  will  come  nevermore  for  me,  for  me  ; 
Fond  zephyr-like  breezes  so  wild  and  tree  ; 
Never,  for  once,  on  my  brow  shall  I  feel 
In  freedom  again,  their  cool  kisses  steal. 

Sunbeams  may  linger  on  hill-top  and  stream  ; 
Play  'round  my  casement  in  fantastic  gleam  ; 
But  to  the  lone  Pris'ner  whose  sighs  are  all  vain, 
Shall  come  no  release  from  bondage  and  chain. 

The  flow'rs  that  bloom'd  on  my  path  in  the  Spring, 
Have  hasted  away  like  birds  on  the  wing  ; 
And  fancies  and  dreams  of  earlier  years 
Have  all  turned  in  guilt  to  sorrow  and  tears. 

Oh  !  for  the  love  and  the  home  of  my  youth  ; 
For  the  innocent  days  of  boyhood  and  truth  ! 
Oh  !  for  a  glimpse  of  that  home  in  the  wood  ; — 
Long  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  it  has  stood. 


32  THE  PRISONERS  LAMENT. 

List  !  'tis  the  peal  of  yon  far-distant  bell  ;  — 
How  falls  on  my  soul  its  accusing  knell  ! 
Years  from  its  kindly  call  held  I  aloof, — 
Hating  instruction  and  despising  reproof. 

Mother,  oh,  mother  !  I  may  not  repress 
Longings  and  tears  for  your  gentle  caress  ; 
Songs  ending  in  wild  and  weeping  refrain, 
For  sins  that  sting  deep  with  the  Adder's  pain. 

Farewell ! — home,  kindred,  youth,  music  and  mirth;- 
The  Pris'ner  here  hath  no  friend  on  the  earth  ; 
The  bird  to  her  rest  !  —  and  Hope  come  and  dwell 
Through  the  long,  lone  years,  in  the  Captive's  cell. 


A  UTUMN'S  FALLING  LEA  VES. 


Autumn  leaves  — 
Falling,  falling, 

Falling  to  the  ground  ; 
Sere  and  yellow, 
October  mellow, 

Scatt'ring  all  around. 

Falling  leaves  — 

Who  can  paint 
Autumn's  showy  dyes? 

Gold  and  red, 

Hang  o'erhead, 
Matching  sunset  skies. 

Autumn  leaves  — 
Faintly  dropping, 

Thickly  strew  our  way  ; 
Hear  the  rustle, 
And  the  tussle, 

And  the  wind's  fierce  play. 


34  A  UTUMN'S  FALLING  LEA  YES. 


Autumn  leaves  — 

Sadly  falling  ! 
Mem'ry  will  entwine 

Late  Autumn  flow'rs 

From  nem'ral  bow'rs 
With  your  days  divine. 


Autumn's  o'er  — 

Now  no  more 
Fall  the  faded  leaves  ; 

Winter's  near, 

Chill  and  drear 
Moans  December's  breeze. 

Autumn  leaves  — 

May  recur 
With  each  coming  year  ; 

But  above, 

There  is  love, 
And  no  Autumn  drear. 


UNDER  THE  APPLE  TREES. 

1855. —  MID-SUMMER. — l88o. 

Under  the  apple  trees  — 

Under  the  mossy  boughs, 
Come  old-time  memories 

Of  youth  and  early  vows  : 
Here  were  Love's  sweetest  lays, 

Here  Childhood's  wildest  glees  ; 
Boyhood's  elysian  dreams  — 

Manhood's  stern  reveries. 

Under  the  apple  trees  — 

Under  the  leaves  of  green, 
The  soft  wind's  playing  yet 

Where  she  so  oft  hath  been  : 
But  Time  some  ruin's  wrought ; 

Spring's  blossoms  all  are  dead  — 
The  green  leaves  of  the  heart 

Are  wither'd,  sere,  and  red. 


UNDER   THE  APPLE  TREES. 


Under  the  apple  trees  — 

Under  the  grape-vine  swing, 
When  dear  girls  made  the  skies 

With  woodland  echoes  ring  : 
The  swing  is  ivyed  now, 

The  girls  —  will  they  return? 
Stand  here  with  me  and  wait  ; 

And  call  from  shrouded  urn. 

Under  the  apple  trees  — 

Hard  by  the  silver  spring, 
Where  grows  the  alder-rush, 

And  where  the  red  birds  sing, 
The  bright  skies  bend  the  same  ; 

The  brook  is  rippling  near  ; 
And  on  an  aged  oak 

Is  carv'd  a  name  full  dear. 

Under  the  apple  trees  — 

Sad  are  our  hearts  to-day  ! 
The  hours  of  song  have  fled, 

And  Love's  fore'er  away  ; 
Earth's  fondest  ties  are  loos'd, 

Forgot  the  young  — the  proud 
The  apple  trees  are  old  ; 

And  life's  an  evening  cloud. 


SYMPATHY.— TO  MY  WIFE. 


The  wintry  upland  stretches  cold  and  bare, 
Looking  a-weary  'neath  the  pallid  stars  ; 
The  giant  trees  extend  their  arms  in  prayer, 
While  the  north-sky  is  red  with  glim'ring  bars  ; 
But  through  the  frozen  zones, 
I  hear  but  spirit-moans, 
Thrilling  the  silence  of  the  pulseless  air, 
As  sea-moans  thrill  a  vessel's  shattered  spars. 

The  moon  hangs  listless  on  the  brow  of  night, 

As  though  a  weariness  had  clogged  her  way ; 
No  smile  is  on  her  face  — her  wan,  pale  light, 
Is  void  of  feeling  as  a  coquette's  play  ; 
No  love  beams  in  her  eye, 
She  loves  no  more  the  sky 

Over  whose  realm  she  long  has  swayed  her  might, 
Like  a  usurper  o'er  the  throne  of  day. 


SYMPA  THY.— TO  MY  WIFE. 


Outcast  upon  the  city's  sordid  heart, 

I  lift  my  hands  appealingly  to  Heaven  ; 
My  prayer  is  vain  ;  no  sympathy  doth  start 
On  the  Moon's  face,  or  in  the  eyes  of  even'; 
Only  the  wind  sighs  low, 
Over  the  cold,  white  snow  ; 
Mocking  my  worship  with  relentless  dart, 
And  giving  no  release  to  the  pent  heart. 

So  o'er  my  soul  a  winter's  spell  had  come, 

Congealing  all  the  fountains  of  that  soul  : 
No  flower  of  Hope  or  Faith  essayed  to  bloom, 
No  energy  could  win  its  fond  control  : 
Up  from  the  gloomy  past, 
There  came,  as  on  the  blast, 
A  sad  refrain  from  out  its  dreary  way, 
Black'ning  the  prospect  of  a  future  day. 

But  soft  !  a  gentle  tear  falls  silently 

Upon  the  heart  congealed  ;  the  frozen  sea 
Of  love  doth  melt,  and  swells  as  tenderly 
As  when  in  youth  beneath  the  trysting-tree  ! 
Brown  eyes  are  beaming  bright, 
Upon  my  gloom  and  night  ; 
And  through  the  winning  power  of  Sympathy \ 
My  heart  is  disenthralled  again  and  free  ! 


EVENING  SHADOWS. 


4i  Come  like  shadows,  so  depart." 

—  Shakespeare, 


The  evening  shadows  lengthen  on  the  floor  ; 

And  softest  winds  are  wooing  northern  flowers  ; 
Weary,  I  wander  out  the  oaken  door, 

Searching  all  vainly  for  some  long  lost  hours. 
Here  have  I  sigh'd  to  reach  life's  ideal  goal  ; 

Here  now  I  bid  adieu  to  vale  and  stream, 

To  all  that  to  my  fancy  seems  a  dream  ; 
And  wave  farewell,  with  sorrow  in  my  soul, 
To  one  forever  lost  to  this  fond  heart's  control. 

My  earl)r  love  !    Wreaths  of  my  early  days  ! 

Your  'lasting  perfume  lingers  'round  me  yet  ; 
While  Time  uncovers  with  Aurora's  rays, 

The  sweet  and  long  lost  image  of  Jeannette. 
Her  life  was  gentle  as  the  opening  rose, 

And  I  was  happy  !    But  the  dream  is  o'er  ! 

Those  years  are  rott'ning  on  the  Past's  dim  shore  ; 
While  memory's  treasure-house  still  fondly  shows 
A  portrait  which  this  bosom  can  no  more  enclose. 


40  EVENING  SHADOWS. 


Oh,  Time  !  from  off  my  heart  the  shadows  roll  ; 

Call  up  again  my  boyhood's  gentle  strain  : 
Alas  !  no  note  finds  echo  in  my  soul  — 

On  earth  that  song  will  never  wake  again  ! 
The  "halcyon  days"  for  which  my  heart  still  sighs, 

The  "gilded  halos  "  'round  my  childhood's  way, 

And  voices  sweet  —  oh,  mem'ry  !  where  are  they? 
No  welcome  smile,  no  fondly  beaming  eyes 
Fall  on  me  now,  or  break  the  mirage  of  the  skies. 

Reckless,  I  float  away  on  life's  rough  wave  ; 

Looking,  all  pleadingly,  toward  the  stars  ! 
With  age's  voice  I  ask  but  for  a  grave  ; 

Nor  wish  for  succor  from  approaching  spars. 
I  hear  the  dashing  of  the  nearer  surge  — 

And  feel  a  hope  of  quick  relief  within  ! 

It  strikes  !  false  hope  !  'tis  but  a  shoal  of  sin, 
Still  floating  on  —  I  near  the  fatal  verge, 
Death  comes  at  last  for  me  !  slow  march,  without  a 
dirge  ! 


RACHELLE. 


It  is  decreed  by  Heaven  above, 
That  soon,  or  late,  we  all  must  love. 


I   think    of  thee,  thou   fondest   one,  when  twilight 

gently  falls 
Upon  the  earth  at  trysting-hour,  and  whip-o-will  low 

calls  ; 
And  when  the  pale,  pale  moonbeams  slant  across 

the  oaken  floor, 
And  nothing  save  that  call  is  heard  to  break    the 

mill-stone's  roar. 

And  often  when  alone  I  sit  beside  the  busy  mill, 

How  many  thoughts  come  trooping  back  my  mem 
ory  to  fill  ; 

And  holy  cravings  —  fancies  sweet — come  to  me 
from  afar, 

As  tender  as  the  love-beams  in  yonder  radiant  star. 


42  RA  CHELLE. 

"Tis  then  I  think  how  fair  thou  art,  and  my  am 
bitious  heart 

Grasps  ever  at  transcendent  things  with  mystic, 
earthly  art  ; 

The  Poet's  air  comes  o'er  me  then,  the  Poet's  fire's 
within, 

And  lights  my  soul  with  love  anew,  and  shades  its 
sombre  sin. 

Men  court  ambitions  high  in  this  frail,  sublunary 
sphere, 

Entwining  fast  their  glorious  names  to  each  succeed 
ing  year  ; 

Too  soon  the  dread  eternities  are  startled  by  each 
name, 

And  only  Memnon-like  is  heard  the  music  of  their 
fame. 

But  I  will  read  Leander's  Love,  and  think  on  Hero's 

truth  ; 
Nor   blindly  wander  seeking  Fame  while  flies  the 

hours  of  youth  ; 
Thy  triumph   comes  not  late,  oh  Love,  when  I  can 

thus  arise, 
And  sing  thy  praises  high  above  the  fam'd  of  Eastern 

skies. 


WHO  IS  HAPPY? 


Who  in  this  world  is  happy?  — 

Who  has  a  bosom  at  rest  ? 
Who  has  taken  contentment, 

To  make  his  life  journey  blest? 
Who  is  not  ever  asking  — 

Praying  for  more  to  be  sent? 
Who,  in  this  wide  universe, 

Says  that  his  heart  is  content  ? 

Not  the  Prince  in  his  palace  — 

Not  the  King  on  his  throne  — 
Not  the  Queen  with  diadem 

Decked  by  many  a  stone  ; 
Not  in  homes  of  the  haughty, 

Where  beauty  rustles  in  silk  — 
Not  in  the  sunniest  land, 

Flowing  with  honey  and  milk  I 


WHO  IS  HAPPY? 

Not  where  the  dance  and  music 

Ring  through  the  fretted  hall  — 
Not  where  the  rarest  old  pictures 

Cover  the  frescoed  wall  ! 
But  in  the  homes  of  virtue  — 

Round  the  hearth-stone  of  right, 
Where  the  true  flame  of  love 

Forever  is  burning  bright  ! 

Where  the  soft  word  of  kindness 

Eases  the  throbbing  brain, 
And  gentle  tones,  like  river's  song, 

Fall  on  the  ear  of  pain  : — 
Where  the  Golden  Rule  is  shedding 

Its  blessings  tried  and  true  — 
"  Do  unto  others  as  ye  would 

Others  should  do  unto  you  !  " 

There  are  the  truly  happy, 

There  they  diffuse  and  enjoy 
A  peace  that  the  world's  shame  and  wrong 

Can  neither  dim  nor  destroy  ! 
Give  me  this  boon,  oh  Heaven  ! 

This  gift  most  kindly  sent  — 
And  teach  me  never  to  murmur  more, 

But  be  with  this  content ! 


THE  CHRISTIAN  MISSIONARY. 

TO    MY   SISTER,  MISS    KETCHUM. 


11  Those  women  which  labored  with  me  in  the  Gospel  *  *  * 
whose  names  are  in  the  Book  ofLife.—'Srf.  PAUL. 


Servant  of  Christ,  what  cheer? 

What  of  the  passing  night  ? — 
Cometh  the  anxious  morning  near, 

While  darkness  takes  it  flight  ? 

Oh  !  patient  toiler,  wise  ; 

Thine  is  the  bless'd  employ  ; 
Thou  hast  great  promise  from  the  skies, 

And  Heav'n  will  bring  thee  joy. 

Thy  Saviour  comes,  in  light, 

To  give  thee  thy  reward  ; 
And  clothe  thy  form  in  garments  white, 

When  loos'd  the  silver  cord. 


THE  CHRIS  TIA  N  MISSION  A  R  Y. 


Count  up  thy  garner'd  sheaves  ; 

Thy  house  in  order  set  ; — 
Thy  life  no  blighted  record  leaves, 

Or  follies  to  regret. 

Thy  fruit  is  perfect  fruit  ; — 
Thy  record's  far  on  high  : 

Thy  earnest  work  hath  taken  root, 
And  lights  the  Heathen  sky. 

Still  sow  the  precious  seed 

In  thy  unselfish  ways  ; 
The  golden  harvest  be  thy  meed, 

After  full  many  days. 


REALF. 


One  writ  with  me  in  sour  misfortune's  book!" 

—  Shakespeare. 


Oh,  who  that  knew  that  living  form, 

Moving  in  earth's  glad  scenes  of  light, 
Saw  that  so  soon  the  cloud  and  storm 

Would  sink  it  in  the  shades  of  night  ? 
And  who  was  he  who  thus  began 

His  early  days  in  joy  and  mirth  ? 
The  race  of  being  briefly  ran, 

And  left,  untimely,  this  fair  earth. 

Stranger  !  I  know  that  he  was  one 

Who  fled  for  refuge  from  dire  fate  ; 
Who  wander'd,  yet  not  quite  alone, 

Pursued  by  demons  of  fell  hate  ! 
And  when  griefs  press'd  too  thick  and  sore, 

Without  a  thought,  with  bated  breath  — 
Forgetting  that  great  Heav'n  was  o'er, 

He  leaped  into  the  realm  of  death  ! 


REALF. 


Stranger  !  I  only  know  that  he 

Was  one  who  came  and  went  ;  I  know 
That  the  worn  frame  was  silently 

Borne  to  its  resting  place  below  ; 
I  do  but  know  that  he  was  one 

Of  many  who  are  daily  seen  — 
Whose  sands  of  life  so  swift  are  run, 

Men  marvel  they  have  ever  been. 

He  had  high  hopes  for  human  weal  — 

Who  has  not  felt  his  kindly  sway? 
Passions  —  for  these  all  beings  feel  ; 

Griefs  —  they  are  scattered  o'er  our  way. 
He  mingled  with  the  world's  vain  show, 

And  found  it  wearisome  as  vain  ; 
Had  pleasures  too,  and  in  their  flow, 

He  quenched  remembrance  of  his  pain. 

But  more  than  this,  I  know  not ;  where 

The  wearied  spirit's  lot  is  cast  ; 
Or  what  its  thoughts  or  feelings  are, — 

I  only  know  its  woes  have  passed  ; 
Passed  —  for  though  bright  the  path  he  trod, 

Yet  darkness  often  hung  around  ; 
And  in  this  new,  unknown  abode  — 

They  come  not —  Death's  is  hallowed  ground  ! 


THE  FAREWELL. 


TO    MISS    KATE    BRYDEN,  ON    HER    LEAVING    NEW    YORK. 


"  A  word  which  must  be,  and   hath  been ;  a  sound  which 
makes  us  linger." 


Farewell  !  gentle  Kate,  the  sad  sigh  as  we  part, 
In  murmuring  numbers  will  steal  from  my  heart  ; 
To  think  that  so  soon  yon  proud  vessel  will  sweep 
With  you  o'er  the  foam  of  the  Hudson's  deep  ; 
While  its  waves  'round  you  resplendent  will  rise, 
And  flash  in  the  moonbeams  like  light  from  thine 

eyes  ; 

While  lovely  as  nature  in  heart  and  in  mein, 
Like  the  dewy  lily  you'll  bend  o'er  the  scene, 
And  pensively  list  to  the  surge's  wild  song, 
On  ambrosial  breezes,  as  borne  soft  along  ; 
While  your  heart  by  chains  of  enchantment  is  bound, 
And  the  moon  is  shedding  her  glory  around  ; 
And  the  stars  in  the  skies,  as  they  sparkle  above, 
Will  be  as  the  glance  from  the  eyes  that  we  love  : 


50  THE  FAREWELL. 


Oh,  then  when  your  heart's  warmest   feelings  will 

roam, 

O'er  the  dark,  green  waves  to  your  own  dear  home, 
Will  a  thought  from  your  bosom  e'er  wander  along 
On  the  winds,  to  gladden  this  sad  son  of  song? 
Whose  Muse  paints  his  feelings  unpolish'd  by  art, 
In  the  language  of  truth,  as  it  flows  from  his  heart ; 
And  who  prizes  the  tear  in  woman's  soft  eyes, 
Far  more  than  the  rubies  'neath  India's  blue  skies  : 
For  woman  with  virtue  and  gentleness  giv'n, 
Sheds  the  purest  of  light  on  our  pathway  to  Heav'n  ; 
Without  her  the  world  were  barren  and  bare, 
No  perfume  in  flowers,  no  balm  in  the  air  : 
But  adieu,  gentle  Kate,  wherever  you  rove, 
May  you  meet  with  sunshine  from  hearts  that  you 

love  ; 

May  fate  shed  around  you  its  smiles  and  its  flowers, 
And  soft  breezes  fan  you  to  wild  orange  bowers  : 
May  friendship's  rare  blessings  be  lavished  on  thee, 
Amid  the  deep  valley,  or  dark-bosom'd  sea  ; 
And  Love's  tender  offerings  be  strewn  at  thy  shrine, 
Alas  !  with  such  hopes  as  I  now  wish  were  mine  : 
But  there  are  some  feelings  no  language  can  tell  — 
Again,  gentle  Kate,  adieu  !    Fare  thee  well  ! 


ALLETTA. 


"  Many  a  year  the  sweet,  wild  roses. 

Over  her  grave  have  bloom'd  and  died : 
Slowly  this  sad  existence  closes  — 

I  am  going  to  meet  my  bride." 

—  Henry  Morford. 


I  stand  alone  in  sorrow,  looking  upward  for  the  light, 

While  around  me  drops  the  curtain  of  the  dull  and 
sombre  night  ; 

I  walk  upon  the  moonlit  hills,  and  catch  the  redden 
ing  glow 

Of  her  beams  upon  the  water-nymphs  that  revel  far 
below  ; 

And  my  memory  turneth  backward,  like  a  sudden 
parted  stream, 

To  an  hour  when  life  was  compassed  by  an  all- 
absorbing  dream. 

I  bethink  me  of  the  cottage  where  we  taught  our 

hearts  to  love, 
And  the  beaut'ous  hills  surrounding,  where  we  were 

wont  to  rove  ; 


52  ALLETTA. 


Where  we  listen'd   to  the  turtle,  as  he  sang  among 

the  pines, 
And  made  our  souls  repeat  his  song  before  each 

other's  shrines  ; 
"Tis  a  sad,  a  tearful  memory,  which  fills  my  heart 

with  pain, 
To  think  we  lived  it  over  once,  but  cannot  live  again. 

I  walk  upon  the  darkling-moor,  and  hear  the  singing 

spheres, 
As  they  chant  their  mystic  music  —  weeping  wild 

and  painful  tears  ; 
I  watch  the  Pleiads  in  their  course,  as  musingly  they 

stray, 
Seeming  to  seek  their  sister  lost  among  the  milky 

way  ; 
And    my  soul    runs    out    in    sympathy,   to   seek    its 

kindred  soul, 
But  trembles  on  the  wayside,  just  in  prospect  of  the 

goal  ! 

When  the  dim  cupuscle  shadows  gather  darkly  o'er 

the  plain, 
When  the  heavens  ease  their  sorrow  in  a  vesper  song 

of  rain  ; 


ALLETTA.  53 


When    the  early  spell  of  Autumn  casts  a  sadness 

o'er  the  pines, 
And  the   moss   has  less  affection  for  the  chapel's 

crumbling  shrines  ; 

I  feel  a  kindred  ruin  in  the  temple  of  my  heart, 
And  all  the  light  of  memory  cannot  rend  the  gloom 

apart  ! 

But  I  still  walk  on  in  darkness,  heeding  not  the 
heavy  night, 

Waiting  for  the  distant  archway,  leading  to  eternal 
light ; 

Watching  for  the  fitful  glimmer,  patient  at  its  long 
delay, 

Only  pausing  in  my  journey  to  kneel  down  and  try 
to  pray  ; 

But  the  end  is  all  uncertain  ;  none  can  see  the  dash 
ing  wave  — 

If  it  brings  Alletta's  love, —  or  surges  o'er  her  early 
grave  ! 


SONG.— JENNY  IN  THE  LANE. 

TO    MRS.    RACHEL    U.    SEARING. 

AIR:   "  Hours  there  were." 

Where  the  heavy  shade  is  falling, 

'Neath  the  lane's  old  trysting-trees, 
And  the  Eastern  winds  are  calling 

Shell-like  music  from  the  seas  ; 
Where  fairest  nature  hath  retreats, 

And  flow'rs  the  heart  enchain, 
There  pleading  Love,  still  fond,  entreats 

Youthful  Jenny  in  the  Lane. 

She  was  sweet  as  early  roses, 

Gentle  as  the  summer's  eve  ; 
Fairer  than  the  bud  that  closes 

When  the  day  begins  to  leave  : 
Though  lost  to  me  on  life's  fair  shores, 

Bright  fancies  yet  remain  ; 
And  Time,  a  moment,  now  restores 

Fairy  Jenny  and  the  Lane. 


JENNY  IN  THE  LANE.  55 


Here  when  the  daylight  sunk  to  rest 

She  came,  in  radiant  light  ; 
A  vision  sweet  —  a  fairy  guest, 

Old  memories  to  unite  : 
How  dear  to  me  the  past  now  seems  ! 

How  fond  is  memory's  chain  ? 
Ah  !  cruel  Fate,  that  wak'd  my  dreams  — 

Dreams  of  Jenny  and  the  Lane. 

Oh  !  the  seasons  since  we  parted, 

And  the  youthful  hours  long  flown  ! 
Jenny,  evermore  true-hearted, 

Here  has  left  me  all  alone  ; 
I've  wanderd  far  from  my  lov'd  cot  — 

O'er  seas,  isles  and  sunny  Spain  ; 
My  heart's  still  warm  — I've  not  forgot 

Brown-eyed  Jenny  in  the  Lane. 

Long  years  have  pass'd, — and  stars  are  bright, 

And  birds  sing  just  as  gaily  ; 
The  summer  air's  still  soft  and  light, 

The  lanes  are  green  and  shady  ; 
But  she  has  gone  —  alack,  the  day  ! 

Boyish  hours  are  short  and  vain  ; 
Young  Love  has  flown,  and  shadows  stay 

On  his  pathway  in  tne  Lahe. 


LA  TE  MA  Y. 


It  is  a  morning  of  late  May, 
The  gentle  rain  of  yesterday 
Has  passed  like  childhood's  tears  away, 

And  sunshine  gilds  the  hour  ; 
The  breeze  that  comes  from  Southern  vales, 
Glides  softly  o'er  the  hills  and  dales, 
And  drinks  the  nectar  that  exhales 

From  every  opening  flower. 

What  glorious  sights  the  orchards  show, 
Enrobed  in  garments  white  as  snow, 
And  waving  grandly  to  and  fro  — 

Seas  of  rosy  billows  ; 
Beauteous  is  the  lilac's  plume, 
Redolent  with  such  sweet  perfume  ; 
Beauteous,  too,  the  cherry's  bloom, 

And  fol'age  of  willows. 


LA  TE  MA  Y,  57 

Now  strains  of  melody  I  hear, 
As  Nature's  choristers  appear, 
And  fill  the  air  with  merry  cheer 

And  joyful  carol  ings  ; 
The  robin,  chief  among  the  choir, 
To  various  chords  attunes  his  lyre  ; 
Now  soft  and  low  —  then  rising  higher, 

'Till  all  the  welkin  rings. 

I  pause  amid  the  dream-like  view, 
And  ask  myself  if  it  be  true  ; 
Or  if  some  fairy's  fingers  drew 

The  panorama  all  ; 
Or  if  the  Power,  supreme  and  wise, 
Presents  to  our  admiring  eyes 
This  scene,  to  show  how  Paradise 

Appeared  before  man's  fall. 


MY  ROCK  LAND  HOME. 


Nestled  in  trees,  with  their  whispering  leaves, 

In  sight  of  Ramapo's  hills, 
Where  the  sunbeams  glint  with  red  and  with  gold, 

The  heaves  of  the  gushing  rills  ; 
And  the  summer  breeze,  the  soft  mountain  air, 

With  dreamy,  light  music  fills. 

There  are  evergreen,  and  maple  between. 
And  birds'-nests  cling  to  the  boughs, 

And  the  pine's  low  voice  oft'  thrills  on  the  ear, 
Like  a  friar's  monastic  vows  ; 

And  the  lone  night  wind  thro'  the  locust  trees 
In  a  wild,  weird  chorus  soughs. 

There  are  beetling  cliffs,  where  the  white  cloud-rifts 

Drop  almost  to  earth  their  fold  ; 
And  in  twilight  dim  the  sweet  evening  star 

Rests  there  in  a  blaze  of  gold  ; 
And  in  my  fond  heart  for  the  old,  grey  rocks, 

Is  a  wealth  of  love  untold. 


M  Y  ROCKL  A  ND  HOME.  59 


Oh  !  I  love  our  whole  land  !  this  fair  fatherland  ! 

Every  rock  and  tangled  fen  ; 
Our  wide,  mighty  streams,  and  our  wide-capp'd  seas, 

Each  vale  and  mountainous  glen  ; 
And  my  soul  goes  forth,  with  a  burst  of  pride, 

To  our  brave,  true-hearted  men. 


TREAD  SOFTLY.— IMPROMPTU. 


Softly  tread 
Over  the  graves  of  the  kind  and  the  cherished  : 

Gently  speak 
Of  those  who  have  sadly  and  early  perished  : 

Heeding  not 
Angry  words,  quickly  spoken  in  bye-gone  years, 

Forget  and 
Forgive  —  remember  we  leave  this  valley  of  tears 

Kindly,  oh 
Kindly,  speak  of  a  brother  when  life  is  o'er  — 

Mildly,  'ere 
You  pass  fore'er  from  this  sad,  chequered  shore. 


BEFORE  PORT  HUDSON. 


A   MEMORY   OF    LIEUTENANT   AVERY. 


He  snatched  from  its  silver  sheath  his  bright,  trusty 

blade, 

And  bravely  on  the  foe's  grim  parapet  sprang  ; 
But  his  sword  fell  from  his  grasp  on  the  rude  barri 
cade, 
As  o'er  his  brave  men  his  last  shout  sternly  rang. 

But  he  heard,  as  he  fell,  a  great  war-cry  through  the 

glade, 

Like  the  thundering  tones  of  surging  sea-waves  ; 
'Twas,  "  Ho  !  comrades,  close  in  through  the  death- 
breach  he  hath  made, 
Or,  evermore  be  but  as  cowards  and  slaves  !  " 

"  Dead  at  the  post  of  Honor  !  "   Ah  !  yes  ;  but  who 

can  tell 
Of  the  conflict,  and  rich  blood  lost  in  the  strife  ! 


BEFORE  PORT  HUDSON.  61 


But  toll  for  the  brave  Avery  a  dirge  and  a  knell, 
And  muffle  the  loud  drum  and  shroud  the  shrill 
fife. 

Oh,  weep  for  the  youthful  hero  your  earliest  tears  ; 

And,  Fame !  lend  a  page  for  the  true  and  the  brave  ; 
He  hath  given,  for  us,  all  the  rich  promise  of  years, 

And  his  bright  wealth  of  love,  for  a  soldier's  grave. 

Aye  !  let  him  sleep  sweetly  on,  for  his  country  full 

long 

Shall  keep  bright  his  deeds,  and  his  mem'ry  cher 
ish  : 
And  her  best  praise  shall  be  given,  in   story  and 

song, 
To  her  patriot  sons  who  so  nobly  perish. 


SLEEP,  LAD  Y,  SLEEP. 

A  SERENADE. 


Sleep,  Lady,  sleep  !  it  is  the  hour  of  rest  ; 
The  sun  sinks  deep  a-dovvn  the  distant  West ; 
The  night  winds  rock  the  tir'd  birds'  swaying  nest. — 
Good-night,  Good-night  ! 

Sleep,  Lady,  sleep  !  naught  may  break  thy  dreaming  ; 
The  full-moon  is  up  and  brightly  beaming  ; 
And  radiant  stars  are  fondly  gleaming, — 
Good-night,  Good-night  ! 

Sleep,  Lady,  sleep  !  here  thy  lov'r-sentinel 
Sweet  vigil  keeps, —  soothing  thy  slumbers  well 
With  softest  music  from  Apollo's  shell. — 
Good-night,  Good-night  ! 


SENTRY'S  EVENING  HYMN.—i%6i. 


"  Home  is  where  the  heart  is,"  sings  the  poet.  u  The  heart 
is  where  home  is,"  says  the  soldier ;  and  not  the  daily  stir  of 
camp  life  ;  not  the  march,  with  its  ever  changing  scenes ;  not 
even  the  deadly  shock  of  battle  can  banish  the  recollections  of 
the  dear  friends  he  has  left  behind,  that  crowd  his  hours  of 
leisure  and  of  rest.  At  dead  of  night,  as  the  sentinel  paces  his 
lonely  round,  his  mind  is  busy  with  fondest  memories.  Wrap 
ped  in  his  blanket,  with  only  the  stars  above  him,  the  soldier's 
weary  body  finds  rest  in  sleep;  yet  he  wanders  from  warlike 
scenes.  Xo  moonbeam  brighter  in  its  silvery  flood  than  is  his 
dream  of  that  far-off  home,  where  his  good  old  father  and 
mother  sit  by  the  chimney-corner  and  talk  of  their  boy  who  has 
gone  to  the  war. 


Good-night,  my  friends,  a  fond  good-night  ; 

The  sun  is  setting  slow  ; 
Around  me  evening's  fairy  light 

Spreads  soft  its  golden  glow  ; 
While,  rising  from  the  Orient  hills, 

The  moon  attracts  my  sight 
To  shimmering  waves  and  glinting  rills  — 

Good-night,  my  friends,  good-night. 


64  SEN  TRY'S  E  VENING  H  YMN. 


Here  once  again,  beneath  this  sky, 

We  rest  from  battle-strife  ; 
All  weary,  that  we  long  to  fly 

To  scenes  of  peaceful  life  ; 
But  this  deep  hour's  for  watchful  men, 

'Tis  full  of  vestal  light  ; 
Alas  !  at  morn  we  strive  again  — 

Good-night,  my  friends,  good-night. 

Yet  in  this  calm,  majestic  hour, 

My  soul  finds  rest  once  more  ; 
Through  yon  pale  moon's  mysterious  power 

I  feel  the  joys  of  yore  ; 
And  as  my  vivid  fancies  roam 

O'er  scenes  so  passing  bright, 
Again  they  waft  to  each  loved  home  — 

Good-night,  my  friends,  good-night. 


LIFE'S  GUIDING  STAR. 


Standing  out  among  the  shadows  that  have  gather'd 
o'er  my  way, 

One  pure  star  alone  is  shining,  lit  with  Faith's  un 
dying  ray  ; 

And  that  star-beam,  'mong  the  shadows,  makes  a 
radiance  in  my  heart  — 

And  the  promise  of  a  morning  whose  clear  light  will 
n'er  depart. 

One  that  I  have  lov'd  has  parted  back  Death's  wa 
ters,  dark  and  cold  ; 

And  will  walk  with  me  no  longer  through  life's 
pathway,  as  of  old  ; 

And  I  hear  no  gentle  calling  of  my  name  in  fondest 
tone  — 

Hush'd  that  voice,  and  still  the  beating  of  the  heart 
I  lov'd  has  grown. 


LIFE'S  GUIDING  STAR. 


And  the  pale  hand  pressed  so  fondly  within  mine, 

when  death  was  near, 
Has  grown  colder,  and  lies  folded  where  the  turf 

grows  white  and  sere  ; 
And  the  trysting-place  no  longer  hath  a  charm  in 

summer  time  ; 
There  the  lost  winds,  like  a  mourner,  chant  a  wild 

and  funeral  rhyme. 

As  the  night-fall  cometh  slowly  over  scenes  I  lov'd 
so  well, 

So  around  my  spirit  creepeth  fears  which  life  can 
n'er  dispel  ; 

Yet,  among  the  shadows  gath'ring,  thickly  gath'ring 
o'er  my  way, 

One  bright  star  is  ever  shining,  lit  with  Hope's  im 
mortal  ray. 


FAIEN&S  OF  OUR  BOYHOOD. 


INSCRIBED    TO    MR.  DAVID    L.    SEARING. 


All  scatter'd,  all  scatter'd  and  fled, 

Are  the  friends  of  our  boyhood  ; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  wild  forest, 

Faded  the  young  and  the  good  : 
The  kindest  and  truest  of  earth, 

Have  long  departed  and  gone  ; 
The  most  loving  and  the  dearest, 

Are  all  away  to  their  bourne. 

All  scatter'd  —and  silent  the  hills 

.  And  the  green  valleys  of  yore  ; 
Yet  voices  of  those  long  lost  ones, 

Come  to  us  now  evermore  : 
But  where  are  the  hopes  that  were  ours  ? 

Where  now  \hejoys  of  that  day? 
And  where  are  our  kindred  spirits  — 

Why  have  they  flitted  away? 


68  FRIENDS  OF  OUR  BOYHOOD. 


All  scatter'd  —  never  to  mingle, 

Fondest  of  friendships  are  o'er, 
And  the  fairy  years  of  our  youth 

Never  will  come  to  us  more  : 
But  adieu  !  oh,  truest  boyhood, 

To  thy  long,  bright,  sunny  day  ; 
Since  friends,  hopes,  and  fancies  of  ours, 

Have  pass'd  forever  away. 


COME  NOT  TO  THE  BOWER. 


TO    KACHELLE. 


Come  not  to  the  bower,  for  Autumn  late  has  faded 

The  jessamine,  which  bloom'd  so  sweetly  there  ; 
The  green  ivy's  gone,  its  gentle  op'ning  shaded, 

When  the  sun's  bright  rays  wanton'd  in  the  air : 
No  more  the  merry  plumaged  birds  are  sporting 

Among  the  summer  sweets  borne  on  the  gale, 
Where  once  our  dreaming  hearts  were  soft  anthems 
courting, 

From  a  streamlet's  voice  which  flow'd  through  the 
vale. 

Come  not  now,  for  the  sweet  star  which  then  shone 

brightest 

In  youthful  hours,  with  a  soft,  steady  blaze, 
O'er  us  who  deem'd  then   each    coming  hour  the 
lightest  — 


70  COME  NOT  TO  THE  BOWER. 

As  wanderers  in  life's  delusive  maze  — 
Is  dimm'd  by  the  cloud  glimmering  in  the  distance 

To  damp  the  soul's  deep  ardor  forever  — 
Destroy  all  sweets  and  pleasures  of  existence  — 

Quench  our  youthful  fire,  and  our  joys  sever. 

Nay,  come  not,  for  oh,  drear  winter's  breath  hath 
shaken 

The  fragrant  vines,  once  rich  with  summer's  bloom ; 
Those  we  lov'd  on  earth  have  our  old  paths  forsaken, 

With  love  as  transient  as  the  flow'rs  sweet  perfume: 
Oh,  come  not  now,  for  the  years  of  bliss  are  clouded, 

And  faithless  Hope  to  our  joys  hath  spoken  : 
And  the  veil  of  gloom,  the  germ  of  love  has  shrouded, 

Which  kindled  love-dreams,  now  lost  and  broken. 


THE  EXILE. 

INSCRIBED    TO    MR.  WILLIAM    R.  GREEN,   MONTCLAIR,  N.  J. 

Where  are  the  hopes  we  so  fondly  cherish'd 

In  life's  young  day? 
Like  those  bright  flowers  that  quickly  perish'd, 

Far  —  far  away  : 
Where  are  the  true  friends  of  youth's  fonder  days  ? 

Oh,  where  are  they? 
The  unreal  here  lingers  around  our  gaze  — 

Truth,  far  —  far  away. 

Where  are  the  sweet  birds  that  sang  above  us, 

In  early  May? 
The  "voice  of  warning"  that  oft'  was  o'er  us 

When  far  away  ? 
The  love  and  the  truth  of  those  years  flit  by, 

Too  bright  to  stay  ; 
And  the  pale  blue  wastes  of  that  Western  sky 

Seem  far  —  far  awav. 


72  THE  EXILE. 


Alas  !  our  hearts  will  grow  sadder —  fonder  — 

And  day  by  day  ; 
The  spell  to  which  each  thought  will  e'er  wander, 

Is  far  away  : 
There  are  the  voices  which  ne'er  deceive  us, 

And  ever  pray  — 
Our  faint  devotion  full  oft'  shall  grieve  us, 

Here,  far  —  far  away. 

When  shall  we  wander  among  June  roses, 

Say,  Spirit,  say? 
And  dream  again  where  sweet  peace  reposes, 

So  far  away  : 
Where  Love  and  Youth,  and  Hope  will  ever  dwell 

In  cloudless  day  ; 
And  the  lone  Exile  greet,  at  calling  bell, 

Friends,  not  far  away. 


THE  SPELL  OF  SONG. 

TO    IRENE. 


Sing  on,  sweet  majd,  thy  witching  strain,  for  it  hath 

joys  for  me  ; 
And  I  would  hear  thy  rich-toned  voice  utter  its  melo- 

dy; 
Bringing  to  mind  my  boyhood's  hours,  when  in  the 

woods  we  stray'd, 
And  life's  pathway  was  strewn  with  flowers,  ere  fate 

our  hopes  betray'd. 

No  power,  or  wealth,  can  ever  buy  a  simple  strain 

like  thine, 
Yet  both   would    I    most   willing  give,    if  bye-gone 

days  were  mine  ; 
And  list'ning  to  that  simple  song,  I  feel  my  bosom 

swell, 

The  warm  blood  leap  within  my  veins,  beneath  the 
potent  spell. 


74  THE  SPELL   OF  SONG, 

There's  wondrous  power  in  that  sweet  strain,  tho' 

simple  is  its  art, 
For  it  is  tuned  to  reach  the  chords  that  vibrate  in  the 

heart  ; 
Its  magic  bursts  the  bright  sun  forth,  illumining  my 

track, 
And  on  the  dial  of  my  soul  the  shadow  has  gone 

back. 


RACH. 


u  Yes,  on  the  porch  of  life  we  stood, 

With  all  the  world  before  us  ; 
Around  us  dreams  of  coming  good, 
And  Hope's  bright  blossoms  o'er  us. 
The  fortunes  joined  that  summer  night, 
Beneath  the  damp  June  roses. 
And  hands  then  clasped  in  troth  and  plight, 
Shall  cling  until  life  closes." 

—  Anon. 

Blest  years  have  fled,  and  hopes  are  dead 
That  once  were  cherish'd  in  their  prime, 
And  strangely  blind  —  each  thought  I  find 
Yet  loves  the  fond  ideal  clime. 

No  longer  beam  the  hillocks  red 

With  berries  that  repaid  the  search  ; 
Alas  !  for  golden  moments  fled 
With  thee  —  my  fairest  Rach.! 

They've  pass'd  away  —  those  days  in  May — » 
That  time. —  The  sunlight  on  the  hills 

Brought  forth  the  flowers  ;  and  genial  showers 
Refill'd  the  merry,  singing  rills. 


76  RA  CH. 

Ah  !  many  pleasant  words  were  said 
In  yonder  grove  of  silv'ry  birch  — 

And  many  were  my  vows  to  wed 
With  thee  —  my  fairest  Rach. ! 

The  Summer's  fled  ;  and  Winter's  dread 

Symbolic  seems  of  present  years  ; 

And  Passion's  grasp  contains  the  asp 

That  poisons  life  with  evil  fears. 

Those  summer  flowers  are  not  all  dead  — 

Those  flowers  which  grew  beside  the  church, 
Nor  hast  thy  love  yet  from  me  fled  — 
Thou'rt  mine  —  my  fairest  Rach. ! 


/  WAITED  B  Y  THE  OLD  OAK  TREE. 


Oh,  the  lost,  the  unforgotten, 
In  our  hearts  they  perish  not." 


I  waited  by  the  old  oak  tree  in  youth's  fond,  dreamy 

hour  ; 
The  winds  play'd  with  the  waving  grain  and  sweet 

the  perfum'd  flower  : 
The  sun  hung  faintly  in  the  West,  and  hush'd  was 

grove  and  dell, 
I  waited  by  the  old  oak  tree  for  one  I  lov'd  so  well. 

Would  I  could  clasp  that  dear  one  now  to  this  sad 

heart  of  mine, 
And  once  again,   within   my  own,  her   fair  young 

hands  entwine  ; 
And  hear  again  her  ringing  laugh  make  music  in  the 

breeze, 
And  wander  by  her  side  once  more  among  the  rocks 

and  trees. 


78  /  WAITED  BY  THE  OLD  OAK  TREE. 


But  the  spell  is  o'er — my  star  has  set  —  and  life's 

young  hopes  are  fled  ; 
That  voice  is  hushed  forever  now,  and  she  is  with 

the  dead  : 
Her  angel   face,  elastic   step,  these   eyes   no  more 

shall  see  ; 

Still  love  will  linger  evermore  beside  the  old  oak 
tree. 


JUNE  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 


June,  rainbow-robed  and  fresh  as  dawn, 

Comes  to  us  once  again  ; 
Her  bloom  is  on  the  cherry-trees, 

Her  "  cowslips  "  gem  the  plain  : 
The  zephyr,  and  the  laughing  stream, 

Are  singing,  all  in  tune, 
The  summer's  praises  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  opening  of  June. 

The  maples  don  their  gala-dress  — 

A  liverj'  of  green  ; 
The  alders  proudly  nod  to  see 

Their  image  in  the  stream  : 
The  robin  trills  the  legends  o'er 

He  learn'd  beyond  the  sea  — 
The  bob-o-link,  with  tireless  note, 

Joins  in  the  melody. 

Dame  Nature,  the  old  dowager, 
Shows  now  a  smiling  face  ; 


JUNE  Iff  THE  COUNTRY. 


Her  robe,  with  "  dandelions  "  gemm'd, 

She  wears  with  queenly  grace  : 
And  pullets  scour  the  garden  walks 

Their  sustenance  to  win  — 
They'll  make  a  "  dinner  "  by  and  by, 

Though  now  they  make  a  "  din  !  " 

The  frogs  — those  "  Knights  of  Evening  Song" 

Are  nightly  wide  awake  ; 
I  have  no  doubt  they  sing  to  sleep 

The  "  tadpoles,"  small  and  great  : 
And  e'en  I  fancy,  'neath  such  strains, 

The  happy  "  polliwogs," 
Dilate  with  pride  on  what  they'll  do 

When  they  are  grown-up  frogs  ! 


JEANNETTE : 

A     YOUTHFUL    FLAME. 


u  Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love  and  pleasure  ! 
Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever  ; 
Ae  fareweel,  alas  !  forever !" 


—  Burns. 


Restless,  oh  restless,  are  my  heart's  deep  fountains, 

That  with  a  tide  of  feeling  o'erflow  ; 
And,  like  the  shadows  resting  on  the  mountains, 

Thoughts  o'er  my  being  darkly  come  and  go. 
I  feel  alone,  alone  ;  life's  rough  edge  pressing 

So  coldly,  heavily  upon  my  heart  ; 
Alas  !  I  pine  for  thine  old  time  caressing  ; 

Some  fate  decreed  that  we  should  dwell  apart. 

There  was  an  evening  in  the  gentle  summer, 

When  the  wind's  soft  notes  floated  through  the 
leaves, 


JEANNETTE. 


And  whirling  wings  of  insects  made  a  murmur 
Among  the  vines  that  cluster'd  'round  the  eaves, 

That  I,  as  now,  found  life  so  lone  and  fearful  — 
Longed  for  a  heart  to  nestle  close  to  mine  — 

And,  hiding  my  sad  face  with  sorrow  tearful, 
My  soul  was  joy'd  that  I  was  pressed  to  thine. 

But  thou,  beloved,  the  dearest  one  I  cherish, 

Must  tread  a  path  that  leads  away  from  mine  ; 
And  yet  my  heart's  fond  worship  ne'er  may  perish, 

Nor  dim  the  altar  that  was  lately  thine  ; 
No  earthly  troth-plight  from  our  lips  was  spoken, 

All  silently  our  destinies  were  read  — 
My  life  is  ending  when  earth's  ties  are  broken, 

And  careless  lips  now  utter,  "  They  are  dead." 


BO  YISH  MEMORIES. 

A  RETROSPECT. 


"Then  might  this  restless  heart  be  still,  this  straining  eye 
might  close." 

-  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


Oh,  would  that  boyhood's  joyous  hours  time  might 
again  restore, 

And  bring  before  me  visions  bright  of  tranquil  scenes 
once  more  ; 

And  as  I  cast  a  backward  glance  to  hear  sweet  boy 
hood's  strain, 

Those  eager  joys,  that  vigorous  life,  fill  every  swell 
ing  vein  : 

But  as  in  once  familiar  haunts  I  now  in  sorrow  tread, 

Thepast,  despoiled  of  all  its  charms,  unsepulchres 
its  dead. 


84  BOYISH  MEMORIES. 


How  often,  'neath  this  shady  oak,  in  summer  would 
I  lie, 

And  watch  the  plumaged,  tireless  birds,  soar  far 
against  the  sky  ; 

And  listening  to  the  church  bells'  chime,  that  broke 
upon  the  air, 

Kneel  down  within  my  solitude  and  breathe  a  fer 
vent  prayer  : 

O,  those  were  bright  exulting  days  that  dawned  upon 

me  then, 
When  Fancy  held  life's  magic  brush,  and  Poetry  the 

pen. 

My  boyhood's  love  —  I  feel  it  now  with  all  its  fervid 
glow  ; 

Once  more  I  see  her  captive  locks  in  flaxen  ringlets 
flow  ; 

Again  I  feel  myself  enclosed  within  her  proud  em 
brace, 

4 

Again  her  loving  eyes  are  raised  in  fondness  to  my 

face: 
But  oh,  the  seal  of  Heaven  was  upon  her  classic 

brow  ; 
Too  fair  and   fragile    for  our   earth  —  she  is  God's 

angel  now. 


BO  YISH  MEMORIES.  8 5 


I  know  full  well  that  boyhood's  days  cannot  return 

again  ; 
No  more  its  ardent,  eager  joys,  shall  fill  a  single 

vein  : 
But  when  life's  broken  ties  are  knit,  when  wounded 

hearts  are  healed, 
When  scattered  friendships  once  again  by  harmony 

are  sealed, 
When  Christ  shall  bring  the  sleepers  forth  from  out 

the  boundless  sea, 
Oh,  then  again,  time  may  restore  my  boyish  days  to 

me. 


THE  OFFICERS  FUNERAL. 


GENERAL  JAMES    A.  GARF1ELD. — l88l. 


"  Soldierly  the  soldier  died." 

—Mrs.  E.  Oakes  Smith. 


Fold  the  brave  hands  on  his  breast, 
Leave  him  to  his  dreamless  rest  ; 
Night,  with  dark  and  solemn  brow, 
Hides  him  in  her  chamber  now  ; 
And,  while  years  their  numbers  tell, 
He  shall  slumber,  deep  and  well. 

Weep  not  o'er  the  chieftain's  bed. 
Soft  it  pillowethhis  head  ; 
Life's  rude  storms  above  him  beat, 
Howls  the  tempest  at  his  feet, 
Yet  they  wake  no  fever  now  — 
Madden'd  pulse  nor  throbbing  brow. 


THE  OFFICER'S  FUNERAL.  87 


Chisel  out  the  rocks  with  care, 
Raise  the  column  grandly  there  ; 
Bring  rare  flowers  —  bid  them  bloom 
Sweetty  o'er  the  soldier's  tomb  : 
Freed  from  party  strife  and  pain, 
He  shall  waken  not  again. 

'Till  the  last  loud  trump  shall  sound  — 
Whose  hoarse  thunders  shake  the  ground 
And  the  mighty,  risen  God, 
Claims  his  dust  from  out  the  sod  ; 
Evermore  to  dwell  above, 
Safely  in  his  Father's  love. 


GENTLE   WORDS. 


"  A   -word  fitly  spoken   is   like   apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of 
silver" — BIBLE. 


They  fall  upon  the  breaking  heart 

In  sorrow's  gloomy  hours, 
As  morn's  sweet  dew-drops  fall  upon 

The  drooping,  fading  flow'rs  ; 
Or,  as  upon  the  thirsty  fields 

Fall  grateful,  summer  show'rs. 

They  come  as  sunbeams  on  the  soul, 
Dispersing  doubts  and  fears  ; 

The  magic  tones  of  sympathy 
Unseal  the  fount  of  tears  ; — 

The  erring  lead  to  virtue's  paths, 
And  point  to  brighter  years. 

Oh,  what  a  little  thing  it  is 

To  speak  a  word  of  love, 
To  sorrowing  or  to  erring  ones, 

As  down  life's  path  we  move  ; — 
But  that  word  may,  for  aught  we  know, 

An  Angel's  blessing  prove. 


LIFE'S  STRUGGLE: 

THE  POET'S  LAMENT  FOR  AN  OLD  FLAME. 


%i  Let l  bye-gones  be  bye-gones]  but  let  us  still  be  friends. 

—  REAL  LIFE. 


There  is  no  sunshine  in  mine  eye  ; 

I  cannot  smile  as  others  do  ; 
Yet  would  not  cloud  another's  sky, 

Whate'er  my  sorrows  or  my  woe  ! 
But  in  the  temple  of  my  heart, 

My  soul  is  lone  and  desolate  ; 
My  dearest,  fondest  hopes  depart, 

And  leave  me  to  my  heavy  fate. 

Why  should  I  tell  the  world  my  care? 

It  cannot  calm  my  surging  grief, 
Nor  to  my  harrowing  despair, 

Attract  the  sunshine  of  relief; 
They  did  not  see  her  in  her  youth, 

Or  worship  at  so  lovely  shrine  ; 
Nor  know  her  purity  and  truth, 

Who  should,  alas,  have  been  but  mine. 


90  LIFE'S  STRUGGLE. 


Well,  well  !    Why  should  I  let  ray  woe 

Cast  sadness  o'er  another's  life  ; 
Amid  this  seething  passion-flow, 

I  should  myself  bear  all  the  strife. 
Oh,  let  us  still  be  friends  !  she  said  ; 

Carve  a  new  purpose  out  on  time  ; 
Let  the  "  dead  past  bury  its  dead," 

Oh,  fickle  lover,  once  of  mine  ! 

Now  light  again  is  in  mine  eye, 

And  I  can  smile  as  others  do  ; 
I  would  not  cloud  another's  sky 

With  sadd'ning  "  bye-gones,"  or  with  woe 
But  with  devotedness  of  heart, 

In  patience,  and  with  courage  wait 
The  years  all  fearlessly  depart, 

That  lead  me  to  Heav'n's  shining  gate. 


THE  LAST  GUEST. 

Written  at  the  United  States  Hotel,  Avon  Springs,  New 
York,  September,  1863. 


The  night  of  the  i;th  of  September,  1863,  was  unusually  cool 
at  Avon ;  all  night  long  the  winds  moaned  through  the  trees 
surrounding  the  hotel,  giving  premonition  of  approaching  win 
ter.  Rising  the  following  morning,  later  than  usual,  the  writer 
found  the  halls  and  corridors  deserted,  every  guest,  save  him 
self,  having  departed  by  the  early  trains.  At  the  entrance  to 
the  dining  hall  the  proprietor  met  him  with  the  remark :  ''''They 
have  all  gone,  and  you  are  now  alone." 


Alone  !  —  and  have  all  gone  from  hence? 

Those  forms  that  gaily  paced 
These  silent  floors,  these  spacious  halls, 

But  now  so  richly  graced  ! 
Gone  !  ah,  my  sad  and  lonely  heart, 

'Tis  thine,  at  last,  to  know 
That  even  here  the  steps  of  joy 

Are  tracked  by  those  of  woe. 


THE  LAST  GUEST, 


Alone  !  no  more  I  meet  them  now, 

Where'er  I  turn  my  gaze  — 
Gone  are  the  greetings  and  the  smiles 

That  blessed  the  earlier  days  ! 
Alone  !  low,  sadly  on  my  ear 

Falls  autumn's  wailing  song  ! 
While  'round  my  steps  the  faded  leaves 

Of  summer  sadly  throng. 

Adieu  !  ye  transient,  fading  forms  ; — 

We  may  not  meet  again  ; 
Joy  go  with  you,  while  memory  haunts 

My  heart  with  tender  pain  ! 
Regret  nor  tears  can  aught  avail 

These  dear  scenes  to  renew, — 
To  which  my  lonely,  lingering  heart, 

Must  also  breathe  adieu  ! 


THE   WINTR  Y  FOREST. 


Lonesome  and  bleak  in  leafless  desolation  — 

Black  when  night's  shadows  steal  along  that  way  ; 
Their  bright  robes  fallen  —  laid,  a  meek  oblation, 

Upon  the  shrine  of  conquering  Decay  ! 
Grand  and  imposing  !  let  me  stay  here  longer; 

We  cannot  look  too  much  on  lovely  scenes  ! 
Love  for  the  grand  within  my  breast  grows  stronger, 

When  gazing  on  'rapt  beauties  such  as  these. 

The  lightest  touch  of  Time's  transmuting  finger 

Changed  into  brown  these  withered,  death-struck 

leaves  ; 
Once  green  and  verdant  as  the  hues  which  linger 

On  the  great  branches  of  the  hemlock  trees  ! 
Now  lying  'neath  the  snows  of  bleak  December, 

Enrapt  in  winding-sheet  of  purest  white  ; 
Gone  to  decline  —  each  made  a  silent  member 

Of  Death's  black  mansion,  black  as  starless  night  ! 


94  THE  WINTRY  FOREST. 


Wild  the  wind  surges  through  the  creaking  branches, 

Ghost-like  and  weird  its  undulating  tones  — 
Swayed  by  its  breath  the  gummy  pine-tree  launches 

Out  on  the  air,  low,  sighing,  labored  groans  ! 
Echo  takes  up  and  multiplies  the  chanting  — 

The  ice-bound  streams  are  palsied  in  their  flow  ; 
Sad  phantom  whisp'rings,  dreaded  waste-spots  haunt 
ing, 

Mix  with  the  chime  their  breathings  trilling  low. 

The  light  snow  fills  the  air  —  white  —  coldly  whirl  ing, 

Brushing  the  mosses  on  the  dim  old  trees  ; 
Round  the  grey  rocks  its  pale  wreaths  slowly  curl 
ing — 

Borne  on  the  pinions  of  the  maddened  breeze  ! 
The  wintry  forest  !  beauties  without  number 

Are  hiding  in  its  wan  and  ghostly  aisles  ; — 
Here  the  pale  moonlight  calms  itself  to  slumber, 

Here  the  rich  sunlight  sheds  it  gorgeous  smiles. 


RACHELLE   ANN. 


Had  the  hey-day  and  the  bloom  of  youth  fled,  soever? 
Nay  —  nay  !  theie  are  her  own  —  her  heritage  forever ! ' ' 

—  Old  Song. 


I  loved  a  maiden  once  —  she  was  fair, 

Very  fair, 

Rachelle  Ann  ! 

With  the  dark  brown  tresses  from  her  head, 
And  her  silk  train,  like  the  buff  and  red 
Chinese  figures,  on  her  Chinese  fan  — 

Rachelle  Ann  ! 

And  this  fairest  maiden  that  I  loved, 

Loved  me, 

Rachelle  Ann  ! 

Oh,  how  silly  !  but  we  had  young  hearts, 
And  we  wiled  the  time  with  simple  arts  ; 
And  she  thought  me  quite  a  gallant  man  — 

Rachelle  Ann  ! 


96  RACHELLE  ANN. 

Bless  you,  love,  but  that  was  long  ago  — 

Oh,  thou  rare 

Rachelle  Ann  ! 

How  we  dreamed  those  early  years  away  ; 
Thinking  life  a  long,  bright  summer's  day  : 
Don't  you  know  how  '  smooth  '  our  '  true  love  '  ran, 

Rachelle  Ann? 

Now  I  sit  and  proudly  watch  you  there  — 

And  you're  fair, 

Rachelle  Ann  ! 

Still  your  hair  is  deepest  chestnut  brown  ; 
And  your  head's  fit  for  a  queenly  crown  : 
Match  your  brown  eyes?    There  are  none  who  can, 

Rachelle  Ann  ! 

Love  may  slumber  long,  but  never  die, 

Oh,  thou  true 

Rachelle  Ann  ! 

Thou  shall  be,  henceforth,  my  Guiding  Star  ; 
Mooring  safe  beyond  life's  surging  bar  : — 
Woman's  work  on  earth,  since  life  began  — 

Rachelle  Ann. 


MY  BOYHOOD'S  HOME. 


"And  no  spring  shall  evermore  restore  us 

What  of  youth  and  hope  we  once  have  lost, 
'Till  the  last  sad  change  shall  hasten  o'er  us  — 
'Till  the  valley  of  the  dead  be  crossed." 

—  Henry  Morford. 


My  boyhood's  home  —  my  boyhood's  home  ! 

In  vivid  hues  remain 
Pictured  upon  fond  memory's  page, 

Though  ne'er  to  live  again  ! 

Youth  withers  in  the  passing  gale, 

Love's  ties  are  broken,  too  ; 
And  life,  at  last,  presents  the  mind 

But  little  sweet  or  new  ! 

My  boyhood's  hours  —  oh,  where  are  ye  ? 

Gone —  mingled  with  the  past  ! 
Life's  river  onward  sweeps  away  — 

Nothing  on  earth  shall  last  ! 


MY  BOYHOOD'S  HOME. 


The  cot  is  there —  the  trees  are  green, 

And  nature  smiles  as  then  ; 
But  oh,  my  heart  is  withering  fast, 

Never  to  bloom  again. 

My  boyhood's  home  —  my  boyhood's  home 

A  long,  a  last  adieu  ! 
I  know  regret  and  tears  are  vain, 

Naught  can  your  charms  renew. 

For  all  is  changing  'round  us  here  : 

City  and  temple  proud, 
Pass,  like  the  castled  semblance,  in 

A  stormy,  evening  cloud. 


THE  LAST  OF  EARTH. 


"  For  here  we  see  through  a  glass,  darkly;  but  then  face  to 
face," —  BIBLE. 


He  is  dying,  dying,  and  day  after  day, 
His  brow  grows  paler,  his  flesh  wastes  away  ; 
The  flush  on  his  cheek,  and  the  light  of  his  eye, 
Are  symbols  which  tell  me  he  is  going  to  die  ! 

He  is  dying  !  so  be  it  —  perhaps  'tis  as  well, 

As  here  to  remain,  to  struggle,  and  tell 

Of  toil  and  misfortune,  of  trial  and  pain, 

To  hearts  which  repulse  him  with  coldness  again. 

He  is  dying  in  spirit,  he  is  dying  in  heart  ! 
Adversity's  pierced  him  with  poisonous  dart  ! 
While  fighting  life's  battle  he  manfully  fell, — 
There  leave  him  to  struggle, —  he  is  dying, — 'tis  well! 

Not  long  can  ye  bind  him  in  Poverty's  chain  ; 
Not  long  will  he  list  to  the  weeping  refrain 


100  THE  LAST  OF  EAR TH. 

Of  famishing  children,  or  desolate  wife  — 
He  is  dying,  to  enter  on  newness  of  life  ! 

No  scandal,  nor  envy,  nor  malice  can  blight 
The  joy  of  that  day-spring  which  knows  not  a  night 
Nor  dictum  of  man  can  his  spirit  enthrall, 
Though  dying  in  body,  he  is  living  in  soul ! 


TO  JEANNETTE. 

ON    BEHOLDING   AN    EARLY    PORTRAIT. 


"  I  saw  thee,  years  ago  ; 
I  must  not  say  how  many,  but  not  many." 

—  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


Thou  fairest  one,  whose  dreamy  dark  brown  eyes 

Have  looked  so  oft'  and  modestly  to  mine  ; 
At  whose  dear  name  such  pleasing  mem'ries  rise, 
'Round   whose   bright   image  such  sweet  fancies 
twine, 

What  art  thou  now  to  me  ? 

Thou  frail  memorial  of  my  youthful  hours  ! 

From  thee,  some  fate  my  heart  forever  bars  ; 
Yet  if  on  earth  there  bloom  for  me  no  flow'rs  — 

What  fondest  meeting  waits  beyond  the  stars  ! 
What  recognition  there? 


102  TO  JEA  NNE  TTE. 

Thou  lovely  partner  of  sweet  days,  long  o'er, 
Would  I  could  live  those  hours  of  bliss  again 

But  the  bright  dream  is  past,  and  nevermore 
Thou  in  my  longing  heart  can'st  ever  reign  — 
Yet  thou'rt  forever  near. 


STILL  THE  ANGEL  STARS  ARE 
SHINING. 

A    MEMORY    OF    CAYUGA    LAKE,  N.  Y. 

Still  the  Angel  stars  are  shining, 
Still  the  rippling  waters  flow  ; 

But  the  Angel  voice  is  silent, 
That  I  heard  here,  long  ago. 

"  Long  ago" 

Still  the  lake  is  gemm'd  with  diamonds, 
Still  the  skies  are  soft  and  gray  ; 

But  from  off  my  heart  —  oh,  never 
Shall  the  dark  cloud  roll  away  ! 

" Roll  Away."1 

Still  the  wood  is  dim  and  lonely, 
Still  the  deep-green  wavelets  play  ; 

But  the  past  and  all  its  beauty  — 
Whither  has  it  fled  away  ! 

" Fled  awav." 


KM       STILL    THE  ANGEL  STARS  ARE  SHINING. 


Cease,  O  surges  —  mournful  surges  ! 

Once  I  loved  your  music  well  ; 
Now  my  heart  is  sad  and  weary  — 

Days  of  old,  a  long  farewell  ! 

"Farewell.** 


THE  GRAVE.— IMPROMPTU. 

WRITTEN    IN    GREENWOOD    CEMETERY. 

Tis  said  the  grave  is  cold  and  all 

Is  calm  and  quiet  there, 
And  nothing  but  the  darkling  worm 

That  quietness  can  share  ; 
That  'round  about  the  tall  grass  grows, 

And  weeping  willows  wave, 
And  fitful  breezes  sweep  along 

Above  each  new-made  grave. 

'Tis  said  the  wind  moans  mournfully 

And  sighs  in  funeral  note  ; 
And  there  above  the  sleeping  dead 

Celestial  spirits  float. 
Should  this  be  true  —  why  dread  the  grave? 

And  shrink  with  trembling  fears  ? 
Or,  why,  when  friends  within  are  laid, 

Bedew  it  with  our  tears? 


106  THE  GRA  VE -IMPROMPTU. 

Tis  true  the  grave  is  dark,  but  here 

Sweet  flow'rs  may  deck  the  ground 
And  cypress  wave  in  beauty  near  — 

No  dreariness  around. 
We  all  must  know  a  grave  at  last, 

And  all  must  pass  away  ; 
Eternal  life  we  then  shall  find, 

And  dawning  of  the  Day. 


SONG.—l  CANNOT  SPEAK  HER 
NAME  AGAIN. 


TO    MRS.    H.    H.    PEDEN. 


AIR  : — "  Oh^  no,  we  never  mention  her." 


I  cannot  speak  her  name  again  ; 

Nor  break  the  mystic  spell 
That  binds  me  with  a  tender  pain, 

I  may  not  learn  to  tell  : 
A  song  there  is  I  cannot  sing  — 

Why  hide  my  vain  regret ! 
My  harp  hangs  mute  with  broken  string 

They  ask  me  to  forget. 

I  cannot  see  her  waiting  there 

Close  by  the  English  larch  ; 
The  budding  roses,  not  more  fair, 

Now  twine  a  broken  arch  : 


108         /  CA  NNO  T  SPEA  K  HER  JVA  ME  A  GA  IN. 


I  ne'er  again  shall  clasp  her  hand  — 
That  clasp  remember'd  yet  ; 

In  vain  I  call  across  the  strand--- 
"  Oh,  say  !  can  you  forget  ?" 

I  cannot  hear  her  voice  again, 

Or  gaze  upon  her  face  ; 
Yet  ever  watch  the  far-off  plain 

And  scan  the  seething  space  : 
Oh,  heart  of  truth  —  so  true  thou  art, 

Keep  true  and  fonder  yet ! 
Thine  is  a  love,  oh,  changeless  heart, 

That  never  can  forget. 

And  I  will  keep  forever  bright 

This  Altar's  sacred  Flame  ; 
It  sheds  no  evanescent  light, 

But  burns  for  aye  the  same  : 
She  may  forget  how  I  am  prov'd, 

The  Larch-tree  where  we  met  — 
But  if  she  loves  as  I  have  lov'd. 

She  never  can  forget." 


THE  BETRA  YED. 


High  up  a  cliff  that  walled  the  sea, 
At  midnight  climbed  a  lonely  form  — 

Alas  !  what  being  could  it  be, 

Who  braved  the  night,  in  such  a  storm  ? 

It  was,  oh,  God  !  a  wretched  maid 
Whose  only  lover  prov'd  unkind  ; 

And  here  she  stood,  full  undismayed, 
Resolved  to  leave  the  world  behind. 

And  kneeling  down,  with  bosom  bare, 
She  asked  forgiveness  of  her  sin  ; 

While  for  another  was  her  prayer  — 
"  Oh,  Lord,  be  merciful  to  him  !" 

The  winds  swept  on  with  fiercer  cry, 

The  light'nings  flashed  —  the  deluge  pour'd, 

Anon  the  thunders  shook  the  sky  — 
And  loud  below  the  breakers  roar'd  ! 


110  THE  BETRAYED. 

She  rose  up  from  her  bended  knee, 
And  on  the  brink  a  moment  stood  ; 

Then  with  one  shriek  of  agony 

She  leaped  —  and  sunk  into  the  flood. 

There  leave  her  with  her  awful  woes  ; 

Her  wrongs  no  poet's  pen  can  tell  ; 
It  was  her  fate  to  be  of  those 

Who  "  love  not  wisely,  but  too  well.  ' 

Oh,  fell  destroyer, — look  with  care  ! 

Thy  doom  eternal,  none  can  save  ; 
Outcast,  thy  soul  sinks  in  despair  — 

That  face  shall  haunt  \\\ee  past  the  gravt 


OH!  SING   THAT  SONG  AGAIN. 


TO    MISS    LOUISE    SEAKLE, 

Rice  Opera  Troupe. 


Oh,  sing  again  that  charming  strain  you  sang  when 

first  we  met  : 
Its  sylvan  notes  still  haunt  me  now,  methinks  I  hear 

them  yet  ; 
And  tho'  so  many  years  have  fled,  and  dim'd  is  now 

my  sight, 
I've  still  a  wish  to  hear  that  song  you  sang  so  sweet 

that  night. 

Oh,  then  the  early,  glad   spring-time   made  all  the 

earth  rejoice, 

And  my  young  life-blood  bounded  wild  at  thy  en 
trancing  voice  ; 

But  autumn  days  now  creep  along,  and  leaves  are 
falling  yet  — 

'Twill  cheer  my  soul  to  hear  that  song  you  sang 
when  first  we  met. 


112  OH!  SING  THA  T  SONG  AGAIN. 


Before  the  pleasures  of  that  hour,   all   sorrows  die 

away  ; 
And  I  baptize  my  soul  anew,  in  memories  of  that 

day  : 
And  tho'  with  change  the  past  is  strewn,  I  never  can 

forget 
The  song  of  love  you  sang  that  night,  the  night  when 

first  we  met. 

Then  take  the  fond  guitar  again,  and  strike  its  strings 

along, 
And  let  the  wilds  re-echo  far  the  rustic  woodland 

song  ; 
That  ere  my  sands  of  life  be  run,  my  sun  of  life  be 

set, 
I  yet  may  hear  that  witching  strain  you  sang  when 

first  we  met. 


THE  LAST  RECOGNITION. 


It  it  well  -with  the  child  ?  —  It  is  well  I  " 

—BIBLE. 


Mother,  I  am  dying  fast  ; 

Earth's  brief  dream  is  nearly  o'er  ; 
And,  from  hence,  my  home  is  cast 

Where  there's  life  forevermore. 

Weep  not,  oh  !  fond  mother,  dear  ; 

Nor  let  tears  thus  constant  fall  ; 
For  do  I  not  only  hear 

Earlier  the  Master's  call  ? 

Lay  me  where  the  wild  flow'rs  dwell, 
Down  beneath  yon  willow  tree  ; 

Bird  and  branches  will  weep  well, 
When  my  spirit  once  is  free. 


THE  LAST  RECOGNITION. 


Raise  me,  mother,  to  the  light  — 
What  is  this  comes  o'er  my  eyes  ? 

Shading  you  from  my  fond  sight  ; 
Filling  room  with  gorgeous  dyes." 

Thus  a  sweet  child  faintly  spoke, 
As  the  Angels  bent  in  love  — 

But  the  "  silver  cord  "  is  broke, 
And  her  spirit  dwells  above. 

Grieve  not  —  God  is  over  all  — 
Thou  fond  Mother  for  thy  Pride  ; 

Many  rose-buds  climb  the  wall  — 
Some  must  burst  on  Heaven's  side. 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  THE  BRA  VE. 

TO  THE  MEMORY   OF  THE   U.  S.  SOLDIERS  WHO   FELL  AT  ANTIETAM. 

"  Dulce  et  Decorum  est  Pro  Patria  Mori:' 


How  sweet  and  glorious  it  is  for  one's  country  to  die; 

To  fall  in  the  conflict  with  our  face  to  the  foe's  ! 
On  victory's  soft  bosom  the  valiant  soldier  shall  lie, 

And  calmly  sink  there  in  her  arms  to  repose. 

What  though  by  the  rude  shock  of  battle  his   spirit 

expires, 

And  the  hero  swift  passeth  away  to  his  rest  ? 
True  glory  his  soul  with  fond  emotion  still  fires, 
And  beats  for  his  country  the  last   throb   of  his 
breast. 


116  THE  DEA  TH  OF  THE  BRA  VE. 


With  tears  sincere  shall  proud  beauty  his  lov'd  ashes 

bedew  ; 
Breathing  oft'  a  soft  sigh   o'er   the   sods   on   his 

grave  ;  — 
And  seeking  fresh  June  roses  the  treasur'd   spot  to 

bestrew, 

Shall  weep    there  while    the    cypress   and    broad 
willows  wave. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  BELL. 

TRINITY   CHURCH,    N.    Y.    CITY,    1870, 


The  bell  strikes  twelve  !  Twelve  strikes  the  mid 
night  bell  ! 

What  mingled  tones  of  sadness  —  joy  they  are  — 
What  mournful  strokes  for  old  To-day's  death  knell  ! 

The  morrow's  gladsome  birth-peal  rung  afar. 

The  bell  strikes  twelve  !  To-day  now  vaults  from 
peak  — 

The  pinnacle  of  rugged  mountain,  Time, 
In  past's  abyss  a  rayless  grave  to  seek  :  — 

Those  arduous  heights  now  see  To-morrow  climb  ! 

The   bell    strikes   twelve  !     Its   strokes  seem  vocal 

sound, 

As  't  were  the  cadence  of  created  one. — 
Hark  !  Hear  To-day's  last  gasp — all  silence  'round — 
To-morrow's  first   breath-cry  —  Time's   new-born 
son  ! 


1 18  THE  MIDNIGH T  BELL . 

The  bell  strikes  twelve  !   To-day's  last  hour  expires  ; 

Old  Time  now  travails  with  To-morrow's  birth  — 
An  offspring  doomed  to  share  the  vain  desires, 

The  joys,  the  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears  of  earth. 

The  bell  strikes  twelve  !    It  is  the  Archangel's  voice, 
Proclaiming  loud  to  this  diurnal  hour, 

"  Thou  shall  no  longer  be  !     Again  rejoice, 
O  !  Time,  at  birth  of  living  Day  once  more." 


TO  A   LADY   OPPOSITE. 

SERIO-COMIC  SONG. 


I  wish  that  "  thing"  would  move  away, 

That  girl  right  over  there, 
Who  sits  "  stuck  Ttp  "  the  live-long  day, 

In  that  old  rocking-chair  : 
There's  dread  upon  my  soul  at  morn 

To  near  the  sash,  the  while  ; 
I'm  sure  to  see  her  there,  at  dawn, 

With  that  eternal  smile. 

Forever  at  that  window-seat, 

A-casting  eyes  to  me 
She  sits  —  and  there  is  no  retreat, 

No  way  to  'scape  or  flee  : 
Too  long  they've  liv'd  there  opposite  — 

I  am  in  much  despair  — 
Would  she  were  more  cos-mop-o-lite  ; 

Or,  did  not  live  just  there. 


130 


TO  A  LADY  OPPOSITE. 


Some  things  to  woman-kind  belong  — 

To  plot,  allure  and  plan  — 
I  understand  that  "  Siren's  Song," 

Though  I'm  a  single  man  ; 
And  she  may  sit  there  long  and  well 

And  wave  that  "  snowy  scarf," 
And  make-believe  that  she  won't  tell  — 

Here  I  will  sit  and   "  larf." 

Yes  !  here  I'll  sit,  mysterious  maid, 

And  take  your  glances  "  inf 
And  fondly  gaze,  through  light  and  shade, 

At  your  array  of  "  (inf 
But  when  with  me  you  make  a  match  — 

(The  Proverb  long  will  keep) — 
Or,  find  me  "fooling"  you  may  catch 

The  weasel  fast  asleep. 


THE    VOLUNTEER'S  DEPARTURE. 

1861. 


"  We  are  comtnz^  father   Abraham,   three-hundred-thou- 
sand  more."  WAR  SONG,  1861. 

11  The  foe  !   The  foe  !  Does  he  not  tread  on  Roman  soil  ?  " 


Away,  away!  it  is  the  trumpet's  shrill  cry, 

Calling  the  sturdy  volunteers  to  their  arms  ; — 

With  patriotism  each  bosom  beats  high, 

And  the  air  is  fill'd  with  the  war's  rude  alarms. 

Brave  Lincoln  the  loud  peal  for  the  war  hath  rung, — 
Resounding  it  darts  to  the  outermost  North  ! 

The  hoarse  song  for  the  conflict  already  is  sung, 
And  soldiers  to  "  Quick-step"  are  now  marching 
forth. 

From  East  to  West —  the  North  Atlantic  along, 
Is  heard  the  war-drum's  throb,  and  soul-stirring 

ode  ; — 
The  war-spirit's   up! — "  three -hundred  -  thousand 

strong," 
The  soldiers  are  swarming  at  every  cross-road. 


THE   VOLUNTEER'S  DEPARTURE. 


Fall  in,  fall  in!  who  here  so  base  as  to  fly, 
While  his  country  and  duty  so  loudly  calls? 

Her  brave  sons  will  join  in  her  sacred  war  cry, — 
And  charge  home  the  insolent  foe's  brazen  walls. 

Arouse  for  the  conflict  !  —  the  whole  land's  ablaze  ! 

The  sword's  now  our  weapon  instead  of  the  pen  : 
Call  back  the  pride  and  glory  of  Assyrian  days  — 

The  honor  and  valor  of  God's  chosen  men  ! 

Haste,  youthful  Volunteer  !  the  mandate  obey  ; 

Yet  snatch  from  yon  maiden  her  last  adieu  : — 
Suppress  not  that  sigh  !  — gallant  soldier,  away  ! 

The  maiden  shall  live  for  her  country  and  you. 

And  cowards,  who  wake  not  at  Freedom's  great  call, 
May  find  with  the  beasts  an  inglorious  grave  : — 

Men  only  who  dare  for  their  country  to  fall, 

Shall  sleep  'neath  the  urn  for  the  true  and  the  brave. 


FLEETING  TIME. 


"  Our  fathers^  where  are  they  .*'* 

"And.  Methuseleh  lived  nine  hundred  and  sixty-nine  years, 
and  died"  —  Bi  BLK. 


Time  is  fleeting,  ever  fleeting — 
Wintry  days  are  coming  near  ; 

I  can  hear  the  hail-storm  beating, 
And  the  rushing  blast  so  drear. 

Time  is  fleeting,  wing'd  and  fleeting — 
As  the  days  once  bright  and  long  ; 

And  the  gray  storm-clouds  are  meeting, 
Hushing  all  the  woodland  song. 

Flow'rs  are  fading  —  birds  are  winging 
Southward  in  their  restless  flight ; 

And  will  cease  for  us  their  singing, 
While  our  skies  foretell  of  blight. 


FLEETING  TIME. 


Leaves  are  falling,  sadly  falling — 
Symbol  of  man's  slow  decay  : 

Stalled  cattle  lowly  calling, — 
Sheep-herds  bleating  for  the  day. 

Life  is  fleeting,  proudly  fleeting  — 
Courage  heart !  reward  will  come 

Lay  not  off  thine  armor,  treating, 
'Till  the  Angels  call  thee  home. 

Battle  as  thy  fathers  battled  ; 

Sternly,  in  the  long  ago  : 
Rise  above  life's  storms  unshackl'd  ; 

Triumph  o'er  its  last  dread  foe. 


BATTLE  PRAYER. 


FOR    THE    U.  S.  ARMY.— l86l. 

Oh  Lord,  with  Thee  is  Death  and  Life  ! 

To  Thee  we  humbly  pray; 
Be  with  us  in  the  Battle-strife  — 

Oh,  shield  our  lives  to-day  ! 
Where  Death  lurks  stealthy,  there  we  go  ; 

Yet  dread  not  cannon's  roar  ; 
No  coward-thought  our  hearts  can  know, 

No  fears  oppress  us  more. 

Hear  us,  Oh  Lord  !  and,  if  Thy  will, 

Grant  that  no  unknown  grave 
These  forms  of  ours,  to-day,  may  fill — 

Be  Thou  with  us  and  save  ! 
We  cry  again  for  life  to  Thee  — 

Bow  low,  Oh  Lord,  and  hear ! 
All  earthly  weakness  here  we  flee  ; 

Oh,  show  Thy  face  to  cheer  ! 


ORANGEBURGH  STATION. 


TO    MISS    C. 


"  Men  their  homage  pay  to  women, 

And  with  love  pursue  ; 
But  long  since  my  heart  forever 

Bade  to  love  adieu  ; — 
All  I  have  on  earth  is  friendship — 
That  I  give  to  you." 

—  Geo.  P.  Morris. 


Gaily  may  dance  the  laughing  eyes 

Of  the  olive  maids  of  Spain  ; 
And  orange-girls  'neath  Italy's  skies, 

Still  weave  Love's  burning  chain  ; — 
Our  western  skies  are  paler  blue, — 

Our  suns  of  lesser  light  ; — 
But  there's  a  girl  with  heart  as  true, 

Whose  dark  eyes  flash  as  bright — 

At  Orangeburgh  Station. 


OR  A  NG  EB  URGH  S  TA  TION.  127 


What  charm  of  modesty  and  mien — 

Girl  of  the  chestnut  hair  ! 
And  dark  brown  eyes  of  wondrous  sheen, 

With  drooping  lashes  rare  ; 
I  am  not  proof  'gainst  thy  soft  sighs  ; 

Or,  half  thy  witchery  ; 
Fair  dreamer  from  the  starry  skies, 

And  Flow'r  of  Destiny — 

By  Orangeburgh  Station. 

Hath  Cupid  pierc'd  thy  young  heart  yet, 

With  shaft  from  his  fatal  bow  ; — 
And  gallant  caught  thee  in  Love's  net, 

With  voice  of  silver  flow  ? 
Since  finger-tip  of  Venus  press'd 

Thy  circling  current  through, 
Thou  wak'st  with  fire  the  Poet's  breast, 

And  giv'st  the  Flame  anew  ! — 

Oh,  Orangeburgh  Station  ! 

For  what  but  Heav'n  can  match  the  bliss 

Hid  in  that  bosom  of  snow  ; — 
The  pouting  lips  that  wait  a  kiss, — 

The  sweet  face  all  aglow  ! 


128  ORANGEBURGH  STATION. 


For  her  might  falter  chief's  last  fight  — 

A  monarch  forfeit  crown  ; — 
Once  to  bask  in  the  soft  love-light 

Her  dark  eyes  sendeth  down  — 

At  Orangeburgh  Station. 

Oh,  maiden  fair  !  Love's  all  a  dream 

Of  bells  in  wedding-chime  ; 
And  Youth  is  but  the  fountain's  gleam, — 

A  tale  told  in  a  rhyme  ! 
Heav'n  bless  thee  then,  fair-saint,  and  shield 

Thy  frail  and  sweet  young  life  ; 
And  nerve  thee  on  Love's  jewel'd  field  ; 

For  Conquest  still  is  rife 

At  Orangeburgh  Station. 


TO   THE  RAMAPO  MOUNTAINS. 


Sweet  Ramapo  !     How  softly  the  evening  light  goes  ; 

And  fades  o'er  mountain  summits  in  ruby  and  rose, 

Leaving  all  the  deep  plain  and  rich  wild-wood  be 
low, 

Full  ablaze  with  the  glories  the)'  drink  in  thy  glow  ; 

How  grandly  and  solemnly  thy  misty  peaks  rise 

Once  more  on  my  sight  through  the  shadowy  skies  ; 

How  dear  the  lov'd  landscape  and  each  mountain 
that  towers  ; 

The  sea-waving  grain  and  the  wild  valley7  flowers  ! 

Fair  evening  !  sweet  evening  !  Oh,  haste  not  away, 

Till  the  tears  of  your  rover  are  dried. in  your  ray  ! 

And  he  feels  that  in  years  of  long  absence  —  not  one 

Of  his  loves  —  the  green  mount  and  grey  ruin  —  are 
gone. 

Lov'd  mountains  '  as  I  wind  thy  wild  fastnesses 
through, 

Your  fair  Rockland  vales  burst  afresh  on  my  view  ! 


i3o  TO  THE  RAMA PO  MOUNTAINS. 

And  here  the  glad  spirit  in  its  fetterless  flights, 
May  wing  free  through  a  sphere  of  tranquil  delights  ; 
O'er  a  maze  of  broad  orchards,  green  meads  and  a 

slope, 

From  whose  tints  I  once  pictur'd  the  pinions  of  hope  ; 
When  lilies  and  violets  my  love  woed  to  stay 
'Mid  their  odorous  dells  ere  she  faded  away  ; 
And  I  call  her  by  name,  but  the  night  wind  that  sighs, 
Through  the  wilds  of  these  mountains  is  all  that  re 
plies. 

Oh,  long  absent  angel  !  whose  faithfulness  threw 

O'er  my  lonely  existence  a  rose-tinted  hue  ; 

Say  !  say  ! — dost  thou  still,  when  the  evening  grows 

dim, 

And  the  whip-o-will,  lone,  is  singing  her  hymn  ; 
Remember  the  bower  by  the  green  mountain  side, 
Where  the  whispers  were  soft  as  the  kiss  of  the  bride  ? 
When  we  sat  side  by  side,  while  the  young  crescent 

moon 

Sail'd  light  as  a  pinnace  through  the  purple  of  June. 
But  thy  summits,  fair  mountains,  are  fading  in  woe, 
And  the  moonlight  falls  sadder  on  fair  Ramapo  ; 


TO  THE  RAMAPO  MOUNTAINS.  •       131 

The  hamlets  gleam  pale  and  the  yew-trees  are  weeping, 
The  sleep  of  the  peaceful  my  fair  one  is  keeping  ; 
The  last  light  of  day,  like  my  hopes  has  departed  ; 
And  I  fall  on  the  turf,  by  her  side,  so  lone-hearted  ; 
Still  the  Ramapo  mountains  stand  grandly  and  grim, 
While  there  steals  from  the  skies  a  sweet  vesper-tine 
hymn. 


FOREVER  THINE. 


Forever  thine,  though  hills  and  seas  divide  — 

Though  storms  combine  ; 
Though  stars  withdraw,  or  deserts  part  us  wide  — 

Forever  thine. 

Forever  thine  !     In  all  the  waste  of  years 

Love's  Mecca-shrine  ! 

When  friends  forsake  —  through  sorrows,  cares  and 
tears, 

Still  ever  thine. 

Forever  thine  !  'mid  swell  of  worldly  joys — 

In  pledge  of  wine  ! 
Thou  angel-voice  above  earth's  whir  and  noise  — 

Thine,  fondly  thine. 

Forever  thine  !  unto  high  Heaven's  control, 

Thyself  resign  ; 
Point  the  worn  spirit  to  its  matchless  goal  — 

Predestined  thine. 


WINGED   HOURS. 


k  Those  hours  that  smiled  !  where  are  they  now  ? 
The  rest  are  on  the  wing  —  how  fleet  their  flight ! 


Oh,  hours  from  the  land  of  viewless  things  — 
Bright  pilgrims  to  earth  on  rainbow  wings, 
We  would  of  your  life  and  being  know  ; 
From  whence  ye  journey — whither  ye  go  ? 
Mortal  !  seek  all  things  that  vanish  soon — 
Dewdrops  that  flee  with  the  blaze  of  noon  ; 
The  meteor  darting  so  bright  and  free, 
The  waves  that  curl  o'er  the  dark,  blue  sea  ; 
Ask  the  sunbeam,  dancing  on  the  stream, — 
Visions  which  float  o'er  a  feverish  dream  ;  — 
The  lightning's  flash  ere  the  storm  cloud  lowers 
Such,  and  so  fleet,  are  the  changing  hours. 

Some  of  us,  vestured  in  light,  pursue 
The  mystic  path  that  no  eye  may  view  : 
Some,  robed  in  the  ever-changing  dyes 
Float  at  evening  time  o'er  sunset  skies  ; 


134  WINGED  HOURS. 


And  some  in  a  gray  and  misty  veil, 
Glide  silently  on  in  the  starlight  pale  ; 
Through  the  quiet  night — the  glare  of  day — 
Still  on  we  follow  and  make  no  stay  ;  — 
Ye  chide  our  haste  and  ye  wish  us  slow, 
But  never  heeding,  right  on  we  go  ; 
And  many  a  sigh  from  Earth's  fair  bow'rs 
Is  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  passing  hours. 

The  pure  in  heart,  with  voices  of  song  ; 

And  stainless  hands  not  formed  for  wrong  ; 

The  sinless  brow,  and  the  guileless  eye, 

May  hail  us  with  glee,  as  fast  as  we  fly  ! 

Alas  !  there  are  some  to  whom  we  bear 

Dark  thoughts  of  the  past,  and  of  future  despair ; 

To  whom  every  plume  in  each  drooping  wing 

Is  shaft  more  deadly  than  Scorpion's  sting  ! 

Yet  countless  blessings  we  love  to  shed 

In  fragrance  o'er  the  guiltless  head  ; — 

And  sweeter  to  some  than  breath  of  flow'rs 

Are  memories  left  by  the  fleeting  hours. 


THE  BROOK  IN  THE  WOODLAND. 


A  MOOR(E)ISH-AMERICAN  MELODY. 


Lone    brook  of  the   woodland  with  thy  fast-flowing 

tide  ; 

And  soft  murmuring  waters  that  placidly  glide  ; 
E'en  sad  now  to  my  heart  is  your  low,  plaintive  tone, 
As  I  think  of  the  voices  long  silent  and  gone  : — 
Of  the  lov'd  ones  that  roam'd  here  and  drank  at  thy 

brim, 
And  the  bright  eyes  that  watched  thee  —  now  rayless 

and  dim  ; — 

Of  youth's  dreams  and  ambitions — delusive  alway, 
Yet  sparkling  in  sunshine  like  thy  ripples  that  play. 

Lov'd  brook  of  the  valley  where  the  violet  blows, 
How  sweet  in  cool  shadows  at  noon  to  repose  ; 
The  west  wind  makes  music  through  the  dark  wav 
ing  woods ; 
With  the  hum  of  the  bees  and  the  bursting  of  buds ; 


136  THE  BROOK  IN  THE  WOODLAND. 


No  passion  or  strife  from  the  rude  world  may  intrude 
To  ruffle  this  scene,  or  break  the  sweet  solitude  ; — 
The  deep  calm  of  the  Sabbath  reigns  always  serene, 
Through   the  bloom-scented  isles  of  this  temple  of 
green. 

Bright  fount  of  the  woodland  !     I  think  as  I  rove, 
Of  the  absent,  the  distant,  the  dead  that  I  love  ; 
Soon,  soon  in  wide  ocean  shall  thy  waters  be  toss'd, 
As  fond  hearts  are  severed  and  true  friends  are  lost  ; 
Yet  nowhere  in  this  world  are  the  waters  so  sweet, 
As  those  in  this  valley  flowing  fast  at  my  feet ; — 
And  how  few  at  life's  noon  have  such  spirits  of  truth, 
As  the  friends  that  we  lov'd  in  the  days  of  our  youth. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  REVERIE. 

AN  ARMY  SONG— 1863. 

There's  a  vale  that  I  love— to  my  heart,  oh,  how  near  ! 
There's  a  spot  in  my  dreams — to  my  mem'ry  most 
dear ! 

I  may  wander  at  will, 

But  my  heart  ever  turns 
To  the  cot  'neath  the  hill, 

With  its  willows  and  ferns  ; 
To  my  own  true  valley,  and  clear,  flowing  river, 
Fairer  to  me  than  storied  Guadalquiver. 

In  the  tent,  on  the  march,  or  on  guard  —  in  the  fight  ; 
I  can  see  the  red  school,  and  the  spire  and  the  light  ! 
E'en  by  the  camp-fire  here, 

Sure  I  see,  boys,  and  sigh, — 
As  home  rises  so  near 

To  fond  memory's  eye  ! 

'Tis  my  own  true  valley,  and  bright;  flowing  river, 
Fairer  to  me  than  storied  Guadalquiver 


138  THE  SOLDIER'S  REVERIE. 

What  matter  that  strange   stars  are  shining  above, 

boys; 

They  cannot  beam  brighter  than  eyes  that  we  love, 
boys  ; 

And  now  weariedly  wait 

With  eye  straining  to  see 
Their  love-lost  at  his  gate  ; — 

Under  his  home  roof-tree 
By  his  own  true  valley  and  soft-flowing  river, 
Dearer  to  heart  than  storied  Guadalquiver. 


SUNSET. 


Softly  underneath  Hesperian  curtains, 
Crimson-hued  — with  gold  and  purple  fring'd 

Fades  away  the  cloud  of  pleasant  sunshine, 
Leaving  all  the  fair  West  ruby-tinged. 

Softly  from  its  white  tent  of  sweet  blossoms, — 
Shaking  out  their  fragrance  to  the  air  ; 

Swells  the  eve-hymn  of  the  joyous  wild-bird, — 
Chasing  from  the  burden'd  heart  its  care. 

Slowly  in  the  silver-tinted  heavens 

Wakes  the  first  star,  faint  with  dazzling  light ; 
Growing  stronger  in  the  thick'ning  shadows, 

Settling  fast  before  the  closing  night. 

Majestatic  —  with  sudden  shimmer, 

Comes  the  white  moon  out  the  Orient  sea  ; 

Scatt'ring  blessings  from  the  distant  region  — 
Gather'd  from  Life's  fruitful  Manna-Tree. 


'40  SUNSET. 


When  the  sunlight  of  my  life  is  sinking 
O'er  the  Hesper-hill  of  twilight,  Time  ; 

May  God's  angel  ever  then  protect  me  — 
Leading  where  there  is  no  sunset  clime. 


OH,    TAKE  THE  LUTE! 

THE  POSTS  LAST  SOXG. 


Oh,  take  the  lute  away, — no  more  I'll  sing  ; — 

The  minstrel  here  must  breathe  his  last  farewell  ! 
Like  winter's  bird  o'ertaken  by  the  spring, 

My  lyre  is  silenced  by  a  mystic  spell. 
These  old,  old  songs  that  I  have  sung  to-night, 

In  other  days  awoke  the  purest  joy  ; 
But  time  can  give  to  fondest  hope  a  blight, 

And  fill  all  raptures  with  a  base  alloy. 

Youth's  laurel-wreath  lies  sprinkl'd  o'er  with  dust ; 

Corroding  cares  have  done  the  work  of  years  ; 
Vainly  I  watch  with  tender,  ling'ring  trust, — 

No  promise  of  lost  youth  or  hope  appears. 
Fond  mem'ries  of  long  vanish'd  years  return  ; 

And  visions  sweet  come  to  the  failing  sight  : — 
No  more  with  song  this  bosom  proud  shall  burn, — 

The  fragile  lute's  unstrung  for  aye  to-night. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Alone  !  and  have  all  gone  from  hence,          .  .           .        91 

All  scattered,  all  scattered  are  the  friends,  .                        67 

Autumn  leaves !  falling,  falling,         .            .  .           .33 

Away,  away  !  it  is  the  trumpet's  shrill  cry,  .           .           121 

Blest  years  have  fled  and  hopes,  etc.,            .  .            -75 

Come  not  to  the  bower  for  autumn,  etc  ,.  .            .             69 

Drear  autumn  winds  now  rudely,  etc.,         .  .            .21 

Farewell !  gentle  Kate,  the  sad  sigh,  etc.,  .            .             49 

Fold  the  brave  hands  on  his  breast,      .        .  .86 

Forever  thine,  though  hills,  etc.,               .  .            .            132 

Gaily  may  dance  the  laughing  eyes,  etc.,     .  .            .       126 

Good  night,  my  friends,  a  fond,  etc.,        .  .                        63 

Hark  !  'tis  the  low  shrill  trumpet,  etc.,         .  .            .12 

Haste,  boys,  the  drum-beat,  etc.,             ...  25 

He  is  dying,  dying,  and  day  after  day,         .  .           .99 

He  snatched  from  its  silver  sheath,  etc.,  .            .             60 

High  up  a  cliff  that  walled  the  sea,    .            .  .            .109 

How  have  these  well  known  scenes,         .  .            .             u 

How  sweet  and  glorious  it  is  for  one's,  etc.,  .           .       115 

I  cannot  speak  her  name  again,     ....  107 

I  loved  a  maiden  once,  etc.,                .            .  .           -95 

I  stand  alone  in  sorrow,  etc.,          ....  51 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  143 


I  think  of  thee,  thou  fondest  one,       .           .           .  .41 
I  waited  by  the  old  oak  tree,          .     "•     .           .           .77 

I  wish  that  girl  would  move  away,      .           .           .  .119 

It  is  a  morning  of  late  May,           ....  56 

June,  rainbow-robed  and  fresh,  etc.,            .           .  .79 

Lonesome  and  bleak  in  leafless,  etc.,        .           .           .  93 
Lone  brook  of  the  woodland,  etc.,     ....       135 

Mother,  I  am  dying  fast,          .  .113 

My  boyhood's  home,  etc.,               ....  97 

Nestled  in  trees,  with  their  whispering  leaves,        .  .        58 

Oh,  hark  to  the  call  of  the  sweet  church  bells,  .            .  17 

Oh,  hours  from  the  land,  etc.,              .           .  •      133 

Oh,  sing  again  that  charming  strain,         .            .            .  m 

Oh,  take  the  lute  away,  etc.,    ...  .       141 

Oh.  wandering  winds  that  press,  etc.,      ...  19 
Oh,  who  that  knew  that  living  form,             ...        47 

Oh,  would  that  boyhood's  joyous  hours,            .           .  83 

Pale  moonbeams  through  the  curtains  fall,             .  .        14 

Restless,  oh,  restless  are  my  heart's,  etc..           .           .  81 
Servant  of  Christ,  what  cheer?           ....        45 

Sing  on,  sweet  maid,  thy  witching,  etc.,              .           .  73 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep,  it  is  the  hour  of  rest,        .           .  .62 

Softly  tread  over  the  graves,  etc.,             ...  59 

Softly  underneath  Hesperian  curtains,        .           .  .        139 

Standing  out  among  the  shadows,  etc.,         .           .  .        65 

Still  the  Angel  stars  are  shining,     ....  103 

Sweet  Ramapo  !  how  softly,  etc.,      .           .           .  .129 

The  bell  strikes  twelve,  etc.,           ...  117 

The  evening  shadows  lengthen  on  the  floor,          .  .       39 


144  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE. 

The  night-breeze  steals  across  the  lake,              .           .  27 

The  winds  of  evening  breathed  in  chorus  sweet,    .           .  9 

The  wintery  upland  stretches  cold  and  bare,     .           .  37 

There's  a  vale  that  I  love,  etc.,           ....  137 

There  is  a  land,  I  know  not  where,           ...  29 

There  is  no  sunshine  in  mine  eye,       ....  89 

There  will  come  nevermore,  for  me,  etc.,           .           .  31 
They  fall  upon  the  breaking  heart,     .            .           .           .88 

Thou  fairest  one,  whose  dreamy,  dark  brown  eyes,     .  101 

Time  is  fleeting,  ever  fleeting,             ....  123 

'Tis  said  the  grave  is  cold  and  all,             .           .           .  105 

Under  the  apple  trees,              .....  35 

We  meet  no  more,  for  fate  has  wak'd,     ...  23 

Where  are  the  hopes  we  so  fondly,  etc.,       .  71 

Where  the  heavy  shade  is  falling,             ...  54 
With  Thee,  Oh  Lord,  is  death  and  life,         .            .           .125 

With  wrinkled  brow  and  hoary  head,  etc.,          .           .  15 

Who  in  this  world  is  happy  ?               ....  43 


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